#they meant to use for it so it was a mistake

[lulujeno]

crush culture — lee jeno ᡣ𐭩

summary : liking jeno was a mistake. kissing him didn't make it any better.

warnings : mentions of alcohol/drinking, kissing, cusswords, angst!! (this does not portray how the idols are irl, all the things here are written to match the song crush culture by conan gray!!)

wc : 6.3k

a/n : reader uses she/her pronouns !! jerk!jeno and bestfriend!mark :D thank u for 100+ followers ~~ cant believe i managed to pull out more than 5k words out of my ass >< my finals are currently happening so that's why i've been ia for soooo long :( i promise when i'm done i'll be clearing out both my drafts and requests ^^

Seeing your best friend, Belle, flirt with Jeno on your couch hit harder than you ever expected. The way they leaned into each other, laughter spilling from their lips like a sweet melody, made your stomach churn in a way that felt foreign and unwelcome. You had no right to feel this way, not when you knew about her crush on him. You had even agreed to be her wingman tonight, setting up this moment so she could finally have her chance. But somehow, along the way, you fell for him too, your heart weaving itself into a tapestry of unspoken feelings and bitter regret.

You should feel happy for her, after all her efforts to catch his attention, but the tight knot in your chest made it impossible to be anything but miserable. “It’s fine. Be happy. It’s your birthday, after all,” you whispered under your breath, trying to convince yourself. The words felt heavy, lacking the enthusiasm they were meant to carry. You exhaled a shaky breath before heading to the kitchen, desperate to escape the sight of them together.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the faint scent of alcohol and fruity punch hanging in the air like an unwelcoming fog. Mark stood by the counter, effortlessly mixing drinks with an ease that told you he’d done this a hundred times before. He glanced up as you entered, and a flicker of concern passed over his face when he caught sight of your downcast expression. He flicked his eyes toward the living room, and you knew he had noticed. Most of your friends knew about your crush on Jeno. It wasn’t something you talked about much, but the way your eyes lingered on him said enough.

“You okay?” Mark asked, his voice low, but the concern was clear, filling the space between you like a fragile glass.

You could only shrug, unsure of how to explain the whirlpool of emotions churning within your chest. It felt too complicated to articulate.

Without a word, he whipped up a drink, something colourful and sweet, and handed it to you. The condensation from the glass cooled your palm, but it did little to soothe the fire raging inside. The drink looked vibrant, but you could already tell it was just a disguise for the hollowness you felt.

“She’s kind of a bitch for doing that in front of you,” Mark muttered, glancing back at the couch, his fingers absentmindedly wiping down the counter. His words hung in the air like a lifebuoy tossed your way, and for a moment, it felt like they were offering you a chance to vent, to express all the things you were holding back. But you shook your head, pushing the thoughts down.

“Not really,” you sighed, taking a sip of the drink. The sweetness coated your tongue, but it tasted like nothing, a mere distraction. “I’m the bitch here. Liking the same guy as my best friend, after she tells me she likes him, that kind of thing breaks girl code.”

Mark furrowed his eyebrows, his confusion evident. “Girl code? Really?” He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “Come on, Belle falls for every guy who looks her way. Everyone knows that. Besides, you actually have a better shot, Jeno knows you, trusts you. You should go for it.”

You nearly choked on your drink, laughter bubbling up despite your mood. “Yeah, and get a reputation for stealing my friends’ crushes? No thanks, Mark. I’ll pass.” You handed him the empty glass, watching as he refilled it, his movements swift and practiced. The glint of the alcohol under the dim kitchen lights reflected how your emotions felt; messy and swirling, a whirlpool threatening to pull you under.

Mark sighed, exasperated. “It’s your party. Don’t let them get in your head. Go have some fun.” He handed you the new drink with a smile, but before you could take another sip, he added, “And don’t drink too much. You can’t handle it, and we both know it.”

But after two glasses, fun was the last thing you felt. The sight of Jeno and Belle still played in your mind, a vivid loop that made the alcohol churn uncomfortably in your stomach. You tried to find Belle in the crowded room, but she was nowhere to be seen. After asking around and realising Jeno wasn’t there either, the pit in your stomach grew deeper. You knew what that probably meant.

You found yourself wandering back to the kitchen, your mind foggy but determined to drown out the ache with another drink. Mark raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to see you again. When you asked for yet another glass, he sighed deeply, a mixture of concern and frustration in his expression.

“This is your last one,” he warned, handing you the drink reluctantly. “You can’t handle much. I don’t want to have to carry you out of your own party.”

But Mark’s warning felt like a distant echo in your ears. By the time you were begging for a fourth drink, all caution had slipped away, and you couldn’t care less about the consequences. The music in the living room was thumping, laughter echoing like a cruel reminder of your current situation, and all you could feel was the weight of everything you couldn’t have — Jeno, your peace, the ability to not care.

“I already told you, no more drinks. You’re cut off,” Mark said, frustration clear in his voice. “I’ll get you some water instead.”

As he turned to open the fridge, you took your chance. The cold metal of a beer can brushed against your fingertips as you snatched it from the counter. You were so focused on your mission to drown out the pain that you didn’t notice Mark turning back toward you.

“y/n,” he snapped, his tone stern, “let go of the can. You’re going to regret this.”

You raised the can to your lips, but Mark was quicker. His hand reached out to grab it from you, and in the struggle, the can slipped from your grasp. The beer splashed everywhere — over your shirt, dripping down your arms, and pooling on the floor. The cold liquid seeped through your clothes, clinging to your skin, making you gasp at the sudden chill. Mark groaned, grabbing a napkin from the counter as you stood there, drenched, with a look of defiance still written across your face.

Undeterred, you tried to tilt the can toward your mouth, desperate to drink whatever was left inside, despite the mess. “Come on, y/n, you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Mark sighed, exasperation laced in his tone as he managed to pry the can away for good this time.

The alcohol-soaked shirt clung to your body, the sticky sensation uncomfortable, but you were too far gone to care. The frustration bubbling inside wasn’t going to be soothed by just a drink anymore. You were angry, angry at Belle, at Jeno, at the fact that you had let yourself feel anything at all.

Before you could make another move, a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, prying you away from the counter. You froze, looking up into the familiar dark eyes you’d been avoiding all night — Jeno.

The world felt like it stopped as Jeno glanced from you to Mark, his brows furrowed in mild concern. “Help me out here, Jen. She’s had too much already, and she won’t listen to me,” Mark said, his voice weary but relieved that someone else could take over.

Jeno’s gaze softened as he looked down at your soaked shirt, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. He let out a small sigh, his grip gentle but firm as he took the can from your hand and replaced it with a bottle of water. “You’re done with the drinks for tonight, okay?” he said softly, his voice holding the same care you’d heard earlier.

Before you could protest, Jeno wrapped his arm around you, guiding you out of the kitchen, away from the noise and the eyes of your curious friends. The walk to your room was a blur, but the warmth of his hand on your waist kept you grounded, even as the alcohol swirled in your system.

The sight of Belle sobbing into someone’s shoulder as you passed through the hallway barely registered in your hazy mind. You were too focused on the warmth of Jeno’s presence beside you, the way his touch lingered longer than necessary, as if he was anchoring you.

Once in your room, Jeno gently guided you to sit on the edge of your bed, his touch careful as if he was afraid you might fall over. His eyes roamed over your beer-soaked clothes, a soft chuckle escaping him. “You’re a mess,” he teased, though his voice held no judgment. If anything, it was laced with concern, the kind of worry that felt warm and comforting instead of scolding.

You glanced down at yourself, wincing as you finally took in the state of your shirt. The beer stains were obvious now, dark patches clinging to the fabric and sticking to your skin in an uncomfortable way. You grimaced, the sticky sensation making you feel even more self-conscious. The alcohol had dulled the sharpness of your embarrassment, but not entirely. A faint blush crept up your cheeks as you mumbled, “I should change…”

You attempted to push yourself off the bed, but your limbs were heavy, sluggish from the alcohol coursing through your system. Your balance wavered, and you nearly stumbled forward before Jeno’s hand gently pressed on your shoulder, keeping you steady.

Without saying a word, he crossed the room to your closet, rummaging through the clothes until he found one of your oversized t-shirts. He walked back to you with that same quiet focus, kneeling down to your level, holding the clean shirt in his hands. His gaze met yours for a moment, and something in his expression made your heart skip a beat.

“Here,” Jeno said softly, his voice just above a whisper. “Let me help.”

Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers reached for the hem of your beer-stained shirt. He moved slowly, giving you plenty of time to object, to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The closeness of him, the way his eyes held nothing but tenderness. It was like the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving just the two of you in this charged, intimate bubble.

Jeno’s hands were careful as he lifted the fabric, peeling it away from your sticky skin with a precision that made your pulse quicken. The cool air hit you, contrasting the warmth of his touch. Every time his fingers brushed your arms, it sent shivers through you. It wasn’t overtly intimate, but the care he took in making sure you were comfortable made the moment feel far more meaningful than it should have.

Once your shirt was off, he handed you the fresh one, his eyes deliberately focused anywhere but your body, giving you the privacy to finish. You quickly pulled the oversized shirt over your head, feeling the soft cotton fabric glide down. Your cheeks burned, not from the alcohol, but from the way Jeno’s thoughtfulness had disarmed you, leaving your heart racing in its wake.

When you were finally settled in your clean shirt, Jeno took a step back, his hands awkwardly fumbling at his sides, unsure of what to do next. “Better?” he asked, his voice quiet but sincere.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The warmth pooling in your chest wasn’t just from the remnants of alcohol, but from the way Jeno had cared for you, so gentle and attentive. The kindness in his actions made your emotions swirl even more intensely.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you heavy with something unspoken. The room felt smaller with Jeno in it, the atmosphere charged with a new kind of tension. It wasn’t uncomfortable though. If anything, it felt safe. Like he was there to make sure you were okay, to take care of you, in a way that made your heart feel lighter despite the whirlwind of the night.

Jeno’s eyes flicked from the bed to you, a soft concern still lacing his gaze. “You should get some rest. It’s been a long night.”

You climbed under the covers, feeling the exhaustion settling into your bones now that the noise of the party was long behind you. As you laid down, Jeno lingered by your side for a moment, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder before he moved to sit at your desk. His presence filled the room, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Jeno?” your voice came out as a soft murmur, barely loud enough to reach him, but he turned to you right away.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated for a moment before whispering, “Thanks… for everything.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, the soft light in your room making his features look even kinder than usual. “Get some sleep, y/n. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

You closed your eyes for a brief second, trying to process what was happening. Jeno was in your room. The Jeno. The one who was always surrounded by friends, admired by so many. The same Jeno your best friend had been talking about for months, and the one you, slowly but surely, had found yourself falling for.

The alcohol still buzzed in your veins, loosening your inhibitions just enough to make you bolder than usual. This was your chance, maybe Mark had been right all along. Jeno was here, with you, taking care of you in ways that felt like more than just friendly concern. Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t imagining the way he stayed close tonight, the way his eyes lingered a little longer.

It was now or never.

The air in the room felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. Jeno sat at your desk, his steady gaze unreadable as you shifted under the covers, a mix of nervousness and warmth blooming in your chest. The alcohol had numbed your inhibitions, but the electricity between you both was impossible to ignore.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to ground yourself in the fabric, though it did little to help. “It’s cold,” you mumbled, barely audible, your voice betraying the hint of vulnerability you didn’t want to show. In truth, the room was a bit chilly, but more than anything, you longed for his presence next to you. The space between you felt far too wide, like an unspoken barrier you didn’t know how to cross without risking everything.

Jeno’s eyes flickered toward you, his hesitation lingering in the silence that stretched between you. After a beat, he stood up from the desk, his movements slow and deliberate, as if carefully weighing each step. Your breath hitched as he approached, and your heart pounded in your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach.

Wordlessly, Jeno slid under the covers beside you, his warmth instantly chasing away the cold. His scent, a comforting mix of cologne and something undeniably him, wrapped around you, making your head spin. Instinctively, you leaned into him, your head finding its place against his chest. His arm moved naturally around you, pulling you closer, and you melted into the embrace, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

With Jeno’s warmth cocooning you, the outside world felt like a distant dream. The party’s once-loud music had faded into a faint murmur, barely audible over the sound of his steady breathing. Every now and then, his breath grazed your hair, sending tiny shivers down your spine. You stayed perfectly still, afraid that even the slightest movement would break this fragile moment, this perfect stillness.

“Is it still cold?” Jeno’s voice was low, a gentle murmur that seemed to sink into your very bones.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you pressed yourself closer to him, allowing the exhaustion of the night to wash over you. “Not anymore,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. His arm tightened around you in response, as if silently saying that he wasn’t going anywhere. That, even just for tonight, you had him.

The soft light from the bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the room, its dim shadows creating a cozy, intimate space that felt removed from reality. The world beyond your bedroom door seemed to slow, leaving only the two of you in this quiet bubble, suspended in time. You found yourself wishing that you could capture this feeling forever, keep this warmth and peace bottled up in your heart.

Jeno’s hand rested on your waist, his fingers moving in slow, absentminded circles over the fabric of your shirt. His touch was so gentle, so careful, that it sent little sparks dancing across your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol making you dizzy; it was the tenderness in every brush of his fingers, the way he held you like you were something delicate.

“You’re always running around, taking care of everyone,” he murmured softly, his words carrying a weight that tugged at your heart. “Who takes care of you, y/n?”

His question hung in the air, the raw sincerity in his voice cutting through you. A lump formed in your throat, and you blinked rapidly to keep the sudden tears at bay. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that. Who did take care of you? For as long as you could remember, you were the one who held everything together, the one who put everyone else’s needs before your own. But in this moment, with Jeno’s arms wrapped around you, it felt like someone was finally seeing past all of that—seeing you.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you admitted the truth aloud. “I guess I’m just used to it.”

Jeno shifted beside you, his body pressing closer, his breath now warm against your ear. “You deserve more than that,” he said softly, his voice low and earnest, each word landing like a promise. “You deserve someone who’ll take care of you, too.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you swallowed hard, trying to hold back the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. His words felt too good, too perfect, and a part of you was afraid to believe them. Afraid to believe that someone like Jeno could really see you like that, could want to take care of you.

Still, in this moment, wrapped in his warmth, you allowed yourself to pretend — to imagine, if only for tonight, that this could be your reality. That Jeno could be yours.

His thumb traced another slow circle on your side, his touch so gentle it was almost hypnotic. “I don’t want you to forget tonight,” he whispered, his voice even quieter now, like he was sharing a secret meant just for you.

You turned in his arms, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes locked with his. There was something in his gaze, something soft and unspoken, that made your heart race. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm on your skin, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stop altogether.

You swallowed, the words escaping you before you could think twice. “What if I do?”

For a moment, Jeno’s expression darkened, his gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. Then, in a movement so gentle it felt like a dream, he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. The contact sent a shiver through you, your whole body reacting to the warmth of his touch.

“Then I’ll remind you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice barely above a whisper.

The night blurred into a series of quiet moments. Soft touches, shared whispers, and a closeness that felt too tender, too fragile to belong to the real world. You could have stayed in that moment forever, tangled in Jeno’s warmth, pretending that the world outside didn’t exist.

But, as always, reality had a way of creeping back in.

Jeno’s phone buzzed on the desk beside him, the soft vibrations shattering the stillness. He sighed, his arm loosening from around you as he reached for the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. You watched as his brows furrowed, his expression tense as he scrolled through the dozens of missed calls and messages.

“Shit,” he muttered, sitting up, his warmth slipping away from you entirely.

The cold rushed in immediately, filling the space where Jeno had been, and your heart sank. You knew what was coming next.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, already knowing the answer but dreading hearing it aloud.

Jeno ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. “The guys… They’ve been calling me nonstop. I told them I’d leave with them, they’re my only ride home.” His voice was tinged with regret, but beneath it, you could sense the guilt.

You forced a smile, trying to mask the disappointment that was tightening in your chest. “It’s fine,” you lied, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You should go.”

Jeno glanced down at his phone again, then back at you, his jaw tightening as he hesitated. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said quietly, his voice thick with the conflict swirling inside him.

You shook your head, the ache in your chest growing. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, your words feeling hollow. “Really. Go.”

For a fleeting moment, you held onto the hope that Jeno might stay. The way he looked at you, his eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your heart race, felt like a promise unspoken. But then the phone buzzed again, shattering the delicate moment. You watched as his resolve shifted, the warmth in his gaze giving way to a distant sadness.

With a heavy sigh, he rose from the bed, the fabric of the moment tearing slightly as he slipped his phone into his pocket. The air around you felt colder, thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions, as if the very room held its breath. Just before he reached the door, he hesitated, turning back to you one last time. His eyes softened as they met yours, and he stepped back toward the bed, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. It was soft and lingering, yet it carried the weight of finality.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” he whispered, his breath brushing against your skin, leaving a warmth that contrasted the chill that enveloped you after he left.

And then, he was gone.

The weekend stretched endlessly, an expanse of silence that felt like an aching void where his presence had been. No calls. No texts. Just the stark absence of his warmth and the echo of the night you had shared. With each passing hour, the memory of Jeno’s embrace faded, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts and an unsettling sense of regret.

You spent the next two days trapped in a loop of memories, replaying every moment over and over. The way he looked at you with such intensity, the way he held you close, the sincerity in his voice when he told you that you deserved better. You ached to reach out to him, to check if he still remembered the fleeting magic of that night. But every time you reached for your phone, a wave of fear stopped you cold. The thought of his response, what he might say or, worse, what he might not say, paralyzed you.

By the time Monday rolled around, you had convinced yourself that maybe it was better this way. Pretending nothing had happened would be the safest path. After all, he would slip back into his life with friends, back to the way things were before, and you would have to bear the weight of your choices alone.

As you stepped through the school doors, you immediately felt the weight of stares bearing down on you. Whispers trailed you down the hall like a shadow, and you quickly pieced together the rumors that had spread like wildfire. Word had gotten out about you and Jeno, and Belle had undoubtedly heard every detail.

It wasn’t long before she found you. Standing by your locker, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, her glare twisted your stomach into knots.

“I can’t believe you, Y/N,” Belle hissed, her voice sharp and full of venom. “You promised me you’d be there for me. You said you’d help me with Jeno, and instead, you—” She cut herself off, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.

You swallowed hard, guilt and shame coiling tightly in your chest. “Belle, I—”

“No,” she interrupted, her eyes flashing with hurt. “Don’t. Don’t act like you didn’t know. Everyone’s talking about how you left the party together. You think I didn’t see the way he looks at you?”

Your heart plummeted, a heavy weight in your stomach. You longed to explain, to articulate that it hadn’t been what it looked like, that you hadn’t intended for any of it to happen. But deep down, you knew the truth: you had crossed a line, and no amount of explanation would erase the breach of trust.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

“It’s not fair. I was so close to having him, Y/N. I was right there, and then you had to ruin it for me.” Belle’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her expression hardened like ice. “You’re a liar. You promised to help,” she spat coldly, turning away from you. “You’re no better than the rest of them. Maybe you should’ve tried harder not to ruin everything.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving you with the sharp sting of her betrayal echoing in the silence behind her.

You stood there, frozen, as the world around you faded into a blurry haze of whispers and judgmental stares. The hallway stretched out longer than usual, each step feeling like an uphill battle against the suffocating air thick with unspoken words. You could almost see the rumours swirling like storm clouds, brewing around you as classmates shot knowing glances. Some gleeful, others disdainful, while they whispered behind your back, oblivious to the truth.

You made it through the day by shrinking into yourself, avoiding everyone as if they were fragments of glass waiting to cut you. Each laugh from a group nearby felt like a mockery, reminding you of how the moments you shared with Jeno now felt like scattered shards, impossible to clean up without inflicting wounds on your heart. Every time you caught a glimpse of him in the halls, your chest tightened as his eyes flicked toward you for just a fleeting second before looking away, as if that one shared night had evaporated into thin air. Maybe it had for him.

The days following that night passed under a strange, silent agreement between you and Jeno. Neither of you acknowledged what had happened. No messages. No lingering glances. No awkward conversations. It was as if you had both silently decided that pretending it hadn’t meant anything was the easiest way to cope. But you couldn't shake the feeling that, to him, it truly hadn’t.

At school, Jeno slipped seamlessly back into the rhythm of his life, surrounded by his friends, laughter pouring from their mouths as if nothing had changed. He blended effortlessly into the crowd of popular kids, exuding an air of confidence that was painfully absent in you. Later, you overheard snippets of their conversations, casual, dismissive remarks. “She’s not worth it, man. You could do way better,” Haechan chuckled, as if your very existence was a punchline. Jeno merely shrugged, his indifference cutting deeper than any blade. “It was nothing.”

The words pierced through your carefully constructed defences, more painful than you could have anticipated. They shouldn’t have stung; after all, you had spent the entire weekend convincing yourself that you didn’t care, that it was just a fleeting moment. But those three words echoed in your mind, a relentless mantra: It was nothing.

Still, you played your part. Whenever you passed him in the halls or found yourself near his group during lunch, you donned a mask of indifference so convincingly that you almost started to believe it yourself. You laughed with your other friends, pretended to focus in class, and convinced yourself that forgetting was the best option. You were adept at pretending, had to be, but that night continued to linger, haunting you like a bittersweet melody you couldn't silence.

The only person who seemed to peel back your façade was Mark. You never spoke about that night directly, but he could read between the lines. He noticed the way your gaze avoided Jeno, how your laughter felt forced, and how your smile no longer reached your eyes.

One afternoon, when the weight of everything felt too heavy to bear, you found yourself gravitating toward Mark. He sat on the grass at the edge of the soccer field, scribbling furiously in his notebook. You dropped down beside him, the warmth of the sun contrasting with the cold ache in your chest. He looked up, brow raised, but he didn’t say anything right away, giving you space to breathe.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” you finally admitted, staring into the distance as the horizon blurred with your emotions.

Mark closed his notebook, shifting his full attention to you. “Want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling inside you. “Not really. Just… everything’s a mess.”

He didn’t press you, but his unwavering gaze bore into you, his concern palpable. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I can tell you’re not okay.”

The tightness in your chest intensified at his words, and you forced a laugh that felt hollow. “It’s not a big deal. I barely even remember that night, anyway.”

Mark didn’t buy it. He never did. “You don’t have to lie to me. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too.”

The silence stretched between you, filled with all the unsaid things that hung heavy in the air. You stared at the ground, fighting the emotions that threatened to spill over.

“Jeno didn’t say anything, did he?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could hold it back.

Mark sighed, leaning back on his hands. “He’s pretending it never happened, too. His friends… Well, they’re being assholes, like always. Told him he could do better. You know how they are.”

You nodded, the weight of disappointment sinking deeper into your bones. Of course they would say that. Of course Jeno would follow their lead. It was easier to dismiss the connection you had shared, to act like you hadn’t been wrapped up in each other, sharing warmth and vulnerability in a way that felt almost sacred.

Sensing your shift in mood, Mark nudged your shoulder lightly, offering a small smile. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend to understand what’s going on in Jeno’s head. But you deserve better than this, better than being some secret he feels like he has to hide.”

His words wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, yet they only amplified the ache in your heart. You wished it didn’t hurt so much, wished you could just move on like Jeno seemed to. But the truth was, that night had meant something to you. Even if you shouldn’t have felt that way, even if you tried to convince yourself otherwise, it did.

It wasn’t just the gossip or the whispers that hurt; it was the entire situation. The reality that you had gotten swept up in something so fleeting, yet so consuming. You felt like you were living on a stage, where every move was scrutinised, turned into something larger than life. Belle, Jeno, his friends; they were all part of that act, and now, so were you. You thought back to the party, to the fragile intimacy you had shared with Jeno, the way you had intertwined your lives for a moment. But the harsh reality was that it hadn’t been real. Not for him.

When you got home, you collapsed onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling, its familiar texture suddenly feeling foreign and oppressive. The quiet of your room suffocated you, amplifying the echoes of whispers and judgment that had followed you all day. It should have been a relief to escape the chaos, but instead, it was a stark reminder of how alone you felt. Gone were the masks and the laughter; all that remained was the haunting silence, thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

Your phone buzzed, and for a fleeting moment, hope flickered inside you. Maybe it was Jeno, maybe he finally had something to say, something that could bridge the chasm that had formed between you two. But as you glanced down, the screen illuminated a message from Mark instead.

Mark: How you holding up?

You stared at the words, the glow of the screen casting a pale light over your uncertainty. Mark had always been the one to see beyond your carefully constructed façade, the only person who didn’t press for answers you weren’t ready to give. His concern was palpable even through the digital barrier, but the weight of your own feelings made it hard to respond.

You: I don’t know.

The reply felt painfully inadequate, a thin veil over the storm churning inside you. You tossed your phone aside, pulling your knees up to your chest, as if trying to protect your heart from the world outside. What did you even want at this point? Jeno wasn’t coming back to fix things, and Belle was probably rehearsing her next round of accusations. You felt caught in a strange, uncomfortable limbo, yearning to forget while being unable to erase the vivid memories of that night.

In the days that followed, you had tried to convince yourself the night with Jeno was nothing more than a fleeting mistake, a moment spurred by alcohol and the warmth of the moment. But now, as the realization washed over you, it became painfully clear: you had wanted it to mean something more. You craved the way he looked at you that night—not with the haze of drunken affection, but with something deeper, something that could fill the void you felt inside.

But he didn’t. He never would.

You remained motionless on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling the silence stretch around you like a shroud. Your phone buzzed again, probably Mark checking in, but you couldn’t muster the energy to respond. The weight of your decisions pressed heavily on your chest, reminding you of the loss that had settled in your heart.

You had lost your best friend, sacrificed your bond with Belle for something ephemeral, and now, you were left to pick up the pieces alone. And maybe that was what hurt the most. The realization that in the end, none of it had felt real. Not the intimate moments shared with Jeno, not the friendship you had thought you could count on with Belle. Everything felt built on a shaky foundation, fragile and destined to crumble.

As you lay there, you reached for your phone, hoping to drown out the noise in your head with music. You scrolled through your playlist, searching for anything that could take you away from this moment. And then it started, the familiar notes of Crush Culture by Conan Gray filled the room, wrapping around you like a bittersweet embrace.

With each lyric, you felt a rush of recognition that hit you like a truck. Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out. The words resonated deeply, echoing the tumult of emotions swirling inside you. It was as if Conan had taken the scattered pieces of your heart and crafted them into a song, pulling at the very strings of your soul.

The lines about fleeting moments, unreciprocated feelings, and the pain of wanting something that was never truly yours surged through you. You closed your eyes, allowing the music to wash over you, each note igniting memories of that night with Jeno. The way he held you, the laughter you shared, the promises whispered in the dark. But with each line, the weight of reality crashed down harder, reminding you of the distance that had grown between you since then.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, the catharsis almost overwhelming as the song played on. You could feel every word burrowing into your heart, every melody capturing the longing you tried to hide. This wasn’t just about Jeno; it was about everything you had lost, everything you had poured into moments that turned out to be nothing but illusions.

And in that moment, you felt a fragile clarity. You might be lost now, but you wouldn’t stay that way forever. The lyrics continued to echo around you, each syllable a promise that you would find a way through the pain, that you could reclaim your voice, your heart, and maybe, just maybe, discover what it meant to feel whole again.

As the song faded into silence, you lay back against your pillows, allowing the tears to flow freely. It was time to face the truth, to embrace the chaos of your emotions, and to start piecing together a new beginning. And with that thought, you closed your eyes, a flicker of hope igniting within you. A hope that lingered long after the last notes faded away.

[sugarybitterness]

hidden trick - natasha romanoff x daughter!reader

word count: 1,811

a/n: guess who’s back! tbh this is very reader centric, with hints of wanda x r .. idk if ill write more for this but you never know ! anyways i hope not too rusty and that you enjoy this little fic <3 i hope to finish a work from swll soon so lets hope that happens hehe anyways! feedback always welcome and appreciated mwah

your leg bounces up and down nervously as you sit in the quinjet with bruce. at age sixteen, you are currently the youngest (and only) avenger in training. if it were up to your mother, you would be safe in the tower with maria hill but you are a valuable asset. you are the hidden trick the avengers have up their sleeve.

you were found in an abandoned hydra base by clint barton, having been left to die after the scientists had no use for you. in the two years you were with hydra, they had tried countless of experiments on you, each one seemingly failed. what they didn’t know was that one of them had worked- you were now enhanced. but your powers always had a mind of their own, and it had kept itself hidden- up until you were taken in by clint and laura.

it was one of laura’s favourite stories to tell, much to clint’s displeasure. they had been moving into a new place, a bigger one to accommodate you and the coming baby. clint had been bringing in boxes after boxes and you stuck close to laura’s side, both of you watching him do the work. as clint carried a particularly heavy set of boxes, he tripped and suddenly you were on your feet, hands shooting out with a blue magic flowing from them. clint had braced himself for the hard impact of the the ground but when he opened his eyes, he saw the boxes floating up the walkway to the house and he was held up by your magic. you slowly righted him and the three of you just stood in stunned silence before clint broke it.

“you’re telling me you could’ve used your magic for all these boxes?!”

to their credit, the bartons took your newly found powers in stride. they helped you work on training it, allowing you to use them for mundane tasks to help you get used to them. in their care, you slowly flourished. that’s when they found about your mother.

you rarely spoke about your time in hydra, but once you started speaking about your mama, it’s like you never wanted to stop. before hydra, you remember a woman with hair as red as yours. she trained you, taught you everything she could before you were taken away. you spoke about her promise, and the bartons never knew what to say- not wanting to let you lose the little hope you had left.

-

two years after natasha romanoff’s graduation ceremony, a baby was placed in her arms. she was told that it was hers, born from her egg, her own daughter. she was told to train you, and so she did. the red room had counted on her training keeping her impartial, but a mother’s instinct is something they could never smother. you were six when they had realised their mistake- and they ripped you away from her, given to hydra for their experiments. taking you away was their second mistake, because natasha ran. she spent the next three years staying hidden all while tracking you down. when she finally does, she shows up on clint’s doorstep with a proposition. in exchange for her and your safety, she will defect to shield and take down the red room.

you were the ace of the team for two main reasons, your power and your training. not only were you on the way to becoming just as skilled as natasha, your powers added an extra advantage. telekinesis and your ability to form shields stronger than the hulk as well as cap’s shield meant that you could do beyond what anyone else in the team could.

the team had argued back and forth before you were allowed to come on this mission. but you knew they needed you, especially with wanda and pietro maximoff in the picture.

“guys? is this a code green?” bruce’s voice snaps you out of your nerves, but it only grows when you hear nothing but static.

you take a deep breath, pushing yourself up from where you were sitting on the ground. “stay here, i’ll go in.”

before bruce can stop you, your hands glow a brilliant blue as you speed off to the ship. you let your eyes close momentarily as you try and remember everything natasha taught you. your eyes flutter open when you feel the hum of someone’s magic- it had to be wanda. zoning in on it, you speed up and you can only hope you are able to take her on.

you stay hidden as you walk through the ship. you hear thor’s words through your intercom and your steps speed up. a flash of red has you tensing- but the shield you had around you repels the cloud of red that surrounds you. you hear a gasp as you push your magic out, and you pull yourself and wanda into a room to your left.

wanda’s strong, you can see it in the way her power swirls a brilliant red. but her training was incomparable to yours, as thor had been the one in charge of your training. your magic pushes her against the wall, another barrier coming up to block the entrance of the room should the other maximoff decide to appear.

the red smoke disappears and you have to stop the gasp that falls from your lips. you knew from the moment maria pulled up their photos that the twins were the ones you had met all those years ago. but seeing her in person sucks the wind out of you. it seems that wanda recognises you too as she stops struggling against your magic.

you both pause as you regard each other, the sounds of the fight around you growing fainter. you break the silence first.

“hi wanda.”your voice is shaky and you have to resist the urge to drop your magic just to hug her. the twins had been the only reason you survived in hydra. their presence had been the biggest comfort through all the pain the scientists put you through day after day.

“im sorry.” it comes out as almost a whisper, and you see the way wanda’s eyes glisten “we should’ve fought harder for you. to take you along. we thought..”

the unsaid words hang in the air. you swallow thickly.

“why are you working for them? did they-” wanda’s eyes harden as her next words spill out “did they take you too? did they use you? experiment on you?”

you shake your head, “no. they saved me- the archer, he found me and took me in. my magic was from one of the experiments they did, it just didn’t become active til after.”

wanda regards you quietly, and you feel a bead of sweat trickle down the back of your neck. it’s now or never.

“come with us. the both of you, please. ultron he.. he wants to destroy the world, not save it. please, don’t fall for it. you can still walk away.” your voice is almost pleading.

“if ultron can’t tell the difference between saving the world and destroying it- where do you think he gets that? why would i work with him.” she hisses, and you remember the way you comforted her after her nightmares. the way she would mumble in her sleep, begging tony stark to spare her and her brother from death.

“because you are better than him. if tony stark can’t tell the difference- you can. you can make the choice.”

wanda sees your eyes glow and you pull pietro into the room, your magic swirling around him. you look at the both of them, and wanda is captivated at the way your power flows around you, surrounding you in a soft glow.

“i know you were dealt shitty cards. but you choose the life you want to lead at the end of the day.” you know that you’re making progress, however small, because not once has wanda tried to use her powers on you. “so please, make the better choice here. help us stop ultron.”

the twins look at each other, and you watch carefully. pietro turns to you then, speaking to you for the first time.

“you’ve grown up well.” your lips stretch into a soft smile. “but i don’t want to work with tony stark.”

“then don’t. think of it as working with me, with the others.” you think of the rest of your team, and you can only hope that they made it out safe. or that natasha hadn’t gone full mama bear mode when she realised you’re not on the quinjet. “tony stark is doing his best to right his wrongs and i know he has a long way to go. but right now this is beyond him.”

the twins share another glance and you can see pietro sigh. you got them.

the walk to the quinjet was silent, the twins in front of you and your magic on the standby. you see a figure run towards you and you place a hand on wanda’s shoulder when you see her hands raise almost instinctively. you step in front of the twins and natasha engulfs you in a fierce hug.

she pulls away and inspects you, her warm hand on your cheek as she looks for any injuries before scanning the rest of your body. when she decides you’re safe, she breaths a sigh of relief. her gaze shifts to behind you where the twins are still standing. you see the rest of the team come out and steve speaks first.

“he got away with the vibranium. we don’t know where he went,” he looks to the twins “i don’t suppose you two have any idea what he plans to do with the vibranium?”

when the twins shake their head, tony lets out a scoff and the twins immediately tense up.

“cut it out stark.” the words tumble from your lips before you can stop them and he looks at you incredulously.

“you do realise they could still be in cahoots with him right? dont you find it a little strange?” tony raises a brow at you and you roll your eyes. the rest of the team watches you quietly, natasha reaching out to rub your arm.

“they’re on our side now, and i’m not gonna let your ego drive them away. i trust them and if you don’t then suck it up.” you pause before adding, “if they go, i go. if you choose to not have them come with us when we do find ultron you won’t have me either.”

you see the way tony flinches and you knew you hit a nerve. you feel a little guilty, tony had been good to you over the years. but he also created a robot that wants to destroy the world and now that the twins are back, you don’t want to lose them again.

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: hannah’s avery

pairing: avery grambs x jameson hawthorne

synopsis: it’s the anniversary of hannah’s death and avery can’t admit to herself that she’s not okay

warnings: mention of death

a/n: I adored writing this!! should I do more avery x jameson?? bc this is my first fic with those two (crazy right??)

tag list: @bewitchingkisses @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket

Avery Kylie Grambs doesn’t cry. It’s been something I’ve told myself my whole life. I didn’t come crashing down when problems came my way, I braved them and didn’t let them see my pain. I’ve always been a stubborn girl and nothing would stop that.

But sometimes… sometimes Hannah’s Avery cried. The little girl in her mother’s arms when the going got tough. She cried and when she did, she wasn’t weak, she had her mother’s strength to carry her through. My mom’s arms had always been a safe place, she was the only person I could crumble into and fall apart on. She allowed me to be every version of myself. Good or bad.

I hadn’t been Hannah’s Avery since the night my mom died but suddenly I found myself as Hannah’s Avery once again on a dull Monday night. And it was more bittersweet than I ever would’ve thought. I felt a sense of nostalgia, like the girl I used to know was back, the girl I love so dearly that I’d lost. But there were no arms to sob into this time. And what was Hannah’s Avery without Hannah?

I reluctantly pushed myself up off of the bed I’d been curled up on for lord knows how long, in an attempt to pull myself together. I walked the bathroom and splashed my face. The icy cold water hit every cell, sending a jolt of shock through me. I needed to stop this nonsense. I wiped my face and breath, staring at someone unrecognisable in the mirror. Hannah’s Avery was long gone, that little girl had died with her mother. Avery Kylie Grambs seemed to be gone too. So who was she? Reflected in the glass? The girl I was looking at wasn’t any version of myself. She was new.

I turned away, uncomfortable with the change, the newcomer. I walked back the bedroom, looking up at the ceiling. And as pretty as the pattern was on it, I don’t think that was why I was looking up. I slumped down on my bed and ran my fingers through my knotted hair, helplessly tugging out the tangles.

“Heiress?”

There was only one voice like his.

“Yeah?” I replied, with a feigned smile.

“Are you okay?” he asked, approaching closer, faster.

His voice was contorted with concern. Why could he tell I wasn’t okay? How could he tell? No one can ever tell. They aren’t meant to be able to tell. I silently cursed myself for not sticking on my mask well enough tonight, the cracks were beginning to appear and Jameson could see right through them.

“Fine,” I replied, not sounding fine at all.

“What’s wrong?” he was quick to ask.

“Nothing I’m fine,” I said sharply, meeting his eyes. Big mistake.

“You’ve been crying,” he barely whispered, touching my cheek gently.

His touch was so soft I shuddered and pulled away. I couldn’t afford to be vulnerable, I couldn’t afford to be manipulated by my feelings, give in so easily. I was stronger than that.

“I don’t cry,” I snapped, my voice hard, harsh, unfamiliar. I didn’t like the way it sounded, it was so unlike myself, like the girl in the mirror from earlier.

“Oh Heiress,” he said, his voice sweet like honey, “everybody cries.”

I shook my head stubbornly, so paralysed by denial I thought I could still move, “not me.”

“Come here,” he replied, sitting down on our bed and opening his arms.

“No, I’m fine,” I repeated. I could see what he was trying to do. “I don’t need comfort, I’m not upset.”

“I know,” he shrugged, “but just come here.”

I crawled into his open arms and curled up against his chest. I laid there as he traced the features of my face with a tentative fingertip. Some of my previous emotion began to subside and I began to feel better. It would leave, whatever this was. It would be gone in a minute. Or that’s what I thought. I was a naive fool. Within seconds of my optimism the left side of my chest physically ached, pulsations of jagged agony rippled through. I fumbled for the words to explain what I was feeling but my mind drew blank. I physically couldn’t. I looked up at Jameson, our eyes locked together.

“Call it,” I murmured, an unwanted tremor creeping into my voice.

“What?” he asked quietly, stroking my hair.

“Call tahiti,” I whispered, gazing into his large green eyes.

“Heiress,” he said gently, his face mellowing, “I don’t have to do that.”

He was right. He could’ve called tahiti the moment he saw my tear-stained cheeks, or sullen face but he didn’t. He waited. And even thought it was probably killing him, wracking his brain, ripping his heart from inside out, the word never came near to passing his lips.

“I want you to,” I said, sitting up, “I want you to call it.”

“Okay,” he replied slowly, almost hesitantly. Jameson Hawthorne didn’t hesitate. “Tahiti.”

I paused for what felt like hours, the words didn’t want to come out of my mouth. It was like they’d been stuck to the sides on my throat with superglue. I hadn’t ever admitted this pain out loud. I didn’t realise how deep I’d buried it.

“My mom,” I whispered, holding in a sob.

I couldn’t look into his eyes, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together if I did that and I couldn’t afford to fall apart for the second time today. Avery Kylie Grambs doesn’t do that.

“Oh Avery,” Jameson said with softened eyes.

Not Heiress. Avery. The tenderness in his voice melted my heart and all of my insides. And with those two words I knew he immediately understood, I didn’t have to say anymore.

I loved him more than anything on this earth, I wanted him, I needed him. But needing someone and letting yourself needing someone are two very different things. But that day finally chose the latter. I fell into him, collapsing in a heap of loud, ugly sobs. I’d never felt more exposed to my own feelings, so raw with emotion.

“It hurts,” I choked, coughing up the words that I’d buried alive in my weighted heart.

“I know, but I’ve got you okay?” he comforted. I could hear his beating heart against my ear, reminding me of how lucky I was. For him, for all of this, for the life I was living. “And it won’t hurt forever,” he continued.

“What if it does?” I asked, my voice so childlike it ached.

“Then I’ll always be here to hold you,” he whispered, stroking the length of my hair softly, his fingers rhythmically weaving between strands in a calming manor.

And he was. He didn’t let go. His grip never wavered. He just held me, all of me. He held Avery Kylie Grambs, Hannah’s Avery and the Heiress. I hid my face into his chest and shed the remnants of my pain, his scent offered me comfort, his touch was warm and familiar.

“I love you Jamie,” I said into him after a while. It was so quiet I didn’t know it he’d heard me.

“I love you too Heiress,” he replied with a kiss on the top of my head. He’d heard me.

He always hears me.

a/n: thanks for reading!! hopefully I got the dynamic right?? anyways this is in honour of our lovely excerpt yesterday 🤭🤭

ALSO I am very aware that I promise PART 4 of the mysterious blonde would be the next fic up but I had this random idea and I needed to write it!! and the mysterious blonde pt4 is a much longer fic than this one…

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Flat & Round Characters

Flat Characters - Consist of only a few features (usually based on clichés). They’re generally static characters meant to serve the story.

Round Characters - Have depth. They have weaknesses, strengths, flaws, fears, tastes, and dreams. They are well characterized in order to seem real. They're dynamic and change over time. They feel affected by the story’s events because they suffer their consequences and learn from them which makes them more realistic and believable.

The use of flat characters

Flat characters are often used in TV comedies (30-minute sitcoms with canned laughter) because comedic stories usually focus on the anecdote and the joke.

Thanks to their commonplace situations and characters, sitcoms are able to transmit a sense of familiarity to the spectator.

Flat characters also have a supporting role in stories with round main characters in order to achieve one of these effects:

Fast recognition: You need your readers/audience to easily recognize the type of characters you are presenting.

Contrast: Flat and/or static characters can highlight the internal or external evolution of round characters.

When to avoid flat characters

Unless you’re specifically looking for one of the previous effects listed for flat characters, it’s best that your characters (especially the protagonists) are round in order for your readers to identify with them.

Creating round and deep characters

Consider the following:

1. Internal Changes

Do your characters undergo any internal changes throughout the story?

Think about their situation at the beginning of the story.

Is it the same as it is at the end? It shouldn’t be.

They can be worse or better, but the story’s events should have affected them in some way.

2. External Changes

Do the external circumstances surrounding your characters change throughout the story?

Just as their personalities suffer variations, their external conditions should as well.

For example, one of your characters could be a farmer at the beginning of the story and then become a warrior by the end.

3. Goals

What do your characters want?

They should have a conscious desire – something that moves them into action.

4. Wishes

What do your characters need?

Regardless of what they think they want, there’s something they need at an unconscious level – something different from what they consciously desire.

That contradiction will bring depth to your fictional heroes.

5. Achievements

What do your characters attain?

Do they achieve any of their goals?

How does that affect them?

If you have the answer to the last question, you’ll have a clearer idea of how the story’s events have changed their way of facing life.

For instance, if they achieve what they wanted at the beginning of the tale but that’s not what they really need, they can learn from their mistakes and try to correct them.

However, they might also give into frustration.

6. Weaknesses

What are their weaknesses?

Everybody makes mistakes and has fears and flaws, so if you want your characters to be more believable, they’d better have weak points and see themselves in need of facing them if possible.

Your characters overcoming these weaknesses or not depends on the story you want to tell and on the type of evolution you want them to experience.

Some overcome them and progress while others don’t and fail. The contrast between them is what makes the story more believable.

7. Strengths

What are their strengths?

Apart from weaknesses, your characters can have strong points they may or may not know about.

Sometimes, they discover them and learn how to make the most of them.

Other times, they do not know, and it leads them to failure.

You, as a writer, should be clear about those strengths and so should your readers be in order to better understand your characters.

8. Conflicts

What’s your characters’ inner conflicts?

Once you’ve answered the previous seven areas of question, you’ll find this one easier to answer.

Every good character must deal with an inner conflict throughout the story such as a mental debate between what they need and what they want or a moral struggle between what they’re trying to attain and what they consider correct.

This type of dilemma makes your characters interesting, and their experiences can turn into life lessons for your readers.

Source Writing References: Worldbuilding ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ "Well-Rounded Character" Worksheet ⚜ On Conflict

[pinguwrites]

The Doll's Burial ⸻ Jonathan Crane

READ DISCLAIMER

pairing | jonathan crane x reader

summary | You knew Jonathan Crane was meant for you from the moment you laid your eyes on him — a brilliant man, filled with wit and curiosity and youth. So perfect, in fact, that you have to take him away from the rest of the world and make him yours, your darling doll. He’ll like it, won’t he?

word count | 9k

Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON, dark!reader, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, reader’s delusional and sick and sadistic but sweet ig, religious (specifically Christian) disdain from Jon , murder/torture towards jon/in general, jon isn’t scarecrow au, slightly ooc jon, p in v sex, househusband!jonathan, PROCEED WITH CAUTION - DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE

Disclaimer: This is part of my unfinished works. I don't write anymore, but I still wanted to publish what I have. I'll use bullet points to explain what I planned to happen at the end. Also note that this is heavily unedited, there will be a lot of mistakes.

i.

You didn’t know what beauty was until you met Jonathan Crane that fateful winter’s night, a night where the season’s gentle touch had left windows glazed with frost, and the late evening coated in a thick, gloomy darkness. Crystal flakes were falling from the sky onto your body like specks of dust, but it was nothing compared to the way it looked on him, his dark hair contrasting with the white, the snow melting upon the touch of his skin. His breath was coming out in puffs of smoke before dissipating into the bitter air, his square glasses glinting in the light of the street lamps.  

Time had frozen still at that moment, as though your brain had gone numb, much like the cold was numbing your ears and toes and the tips of your fingers. Licking your lips, you observed as the man — whose name you did not know then — glanced at the slim watch on his wrist, shivering ever so slightly as a breeze brushed him by. He was wearing an elegant suit, colored charcoal, the dress shirt underneath thinly striped, and his shoes polished and new, no doubt recently bought. He seemed to be an educated man with wealth, maybe a doctor or lawyer, but you guessed doctor, because he struck you as a scientific mind, curious but practical. 

He wasn’t married, as he had no ring, which led you to believe that his profession took up a lot of his time and effort. After all, how could a man as gorgeous as him not be desired? Even the thought of him in bed with you set your loins alight, not to mention the slightest notion of him being yours until death do us part.  

“Silly,” you had murmured to yourself, though there was a soft smile playing on your lips. “You’re thinking too far ahead, like always.”

But it really wasn’t your fault. He was so delightful to look at. Almost like a doll, with his plump pink lips and blush-dusted cheeks. You could imagine it already: a domestic life. He needn’t not lift a finger, not think a single thought, as long as he allowed you to hold him in his arms. How was it that someone who had not done anything at all to warrant such attraction, found himself at the center of your obsessiveness?

There’s something about him. Something different I cannot deny. He was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, anyone you would ever see in the future. It was strange how humans worked, heart so easily manipulated. What was it that caught your attention in the first place? you wondered. The aesthetic of the scene? His simple presence in the emptiness of the street? Did it even matter anymore, now that you were so hopelessly captured by him?

“Hey, excuse me, ma’am!”

Heart thumping against your chest at the sudden noise, you answered hesitantly, “Yes?”

The man, who was raising his voice so he could be heard across the street, gave you a wary look. “Do you know when the bus will arrive? I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes — the sign said it would arrive at seven.”

“I’m not sure,” you lied. You hadn’t expected him to talk to you. The event felt out of control, like you weren’t sure what was going to happen next. It bothered you, but if anything, this was a sign. A sign that perhaps he was the one. “I’m waiting for it as well,” you continued. “Do you mind if I cross?”

“I don’t.”

After you made sure there were no cars nearby, you walked across the road and finally got your first view of the man, finding his features, his mannerisms, his everything to be just as breathtaking as it was from a distance. He had a relatively low voice, around a medium pitch, and it was grated, almost like a vocal fry. He had these little freckles scattered across his face like distant stars in the sky. If it was possible, you would have plucked out every single one of them to store in a jar.

“I usually don’t take the bus,” you said smoothly, trying to start a conversation, though all you could focus on the way he was looking at you, his gaze piercing and icy, “but my car’s in a workshop. I thought I’d try my luck here before heading to the subway.”

Your car wasn’t in a workshop. It was in the garage parking lot just diagonal of his view. You had only gotten out because you wanted a quick coffee at the local café. Eternally grateful that you spotted him along the way, you weren’t sure what you would have done if you hadn’t. It had only been a few minutes, and you were already in love.

The man hummed in response, not seeming to take much of an interest. “I’m in a similar situation myself . . . I’ll be on my way, then,” he said, clearing his throat. 

He started walking down the sidewalk to the nearest subway station, a walk you knew was going to take about a while. And in those clothes? He was most certainly going to catch a cold. If it was proper to do so, you would have offered him your own coat, but in a city like this, where no one trusted, you didn’t need to make him suspicious of your kindness. People were like animals, small critters. Approaching them too fast would scare them off. You had to be subtle, ease into it before you did anything too rash. 

“Are you coming?” he asked, turning around, waiting for you to follow him. His tone was expectant, and almost humorous, like the thought of you continuing to wait for the bus was amusing to him. It made you amused. There would be work to do with his arrogance when you finally take him away, you made a mental note of that. 

“No,” you responded. “I’ve changed my mind, I’ll have a friend come pick me up.”

“. . . Are you sure?” he pressed, concerned. He was concerned for you. It was so sweet. 

“I’m sure,” you repeated. If you were with him for a second longer you would have gotten down on your knees and proposed. 

He considered your words, then nodded. “Well, have a nice day, ma’am.”

“You as well . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Jonathan. Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

“Jonathan,” you repeated, the word rolling off your tongue with ease. Jon-ah-thun, meaning God has given, gift of God. A gift to you, surely, or why else would he be here, standing in your presence if he wasn’t meant to be taken away? To be polite, you gave him your own name, hoping he liked it as much as you liked his, and simply said, “Have a nice day,” hiding the butterflies inside your stomach that flew around like hail in a blizzard. 

Jonathan Crane, my very own doll.

+++

The chains clinked against the others in the link, the cuffs tugging against the skin, pulled so hard it restricted the blood flow. It was only then the noises stopped, and a defeated sigh left your doll’s lips. His head leaned against the wall and his posture slumped, as though he had given up. It was a shame, too. The sight of him struggling was exhilarating. It filled you with such excitement and arousal that you wished he kept going.

Currently, you were working, with your laptop placed out in front of you on your desk, some oatmeal to your right. The camera system was hooked up to the large monitor, so from here you could watch Jonathan’s movements. He had been awake since the break of dawn, the time he usually got up for work, except he wasn’t at his house today, he was in your basement, body against the cold floor, trembling like a scared bunny.

The planning was the most difficult part of this endevour. You had never actually kidnapped someone before. When you were a child, the local police suspected you in the mutilation of a few small critters in your apartment complex, and in college you were involved in the accidental death of one of your fellow students (he fell down the stairs and hit his head, nothing that anyone could prove was your fault), but to actually kidnap someone was entirely different. 

It would be an ongoing investigation until the case was classified as cold, and even then some cold cases were picked up again after years; you had to make sure no could connect a link, because some people were too narrow-minded to understand how true and unconditional your adoration for him was; and not only that, but the amount of research — or stalking, as some might call it — that you had to do was exhaustive; but really, it was worth it, and Jonathan would fall for you just as you did for him within a few months, maybe a year at most. He would come to realize just how much you cared about him, and just how wonderful your life could be together. Once you arrived at that point, things would flow seamlessly. You had all the precautions in place. Even if he did try and escape, you always had a sedative in your pocket, and all the doors to your house was just as secure on the inside as it was on the outside. 

The only thing you worried about was witnesses. See, Jonathan was usually very careful not to go into secluded alleyways or dingy locations on his own, which made it difficult to take him. So, you had to bump into him in a coffee shop — a coincidence, you had told him — and from there lure him out.  

You sighed lovingly and gazed at Jonathan through the screen, deciding that it was time to bring him breakfast and lay out the ground rules.

After a few more minutes, you crept down the stairs with some food and water, careful not to step on any of the parts that would cause a creaking sound, and unlocked the basement with the passcode. When you opened the door, Jonathan raised his head, scooting his body away from your figure until he backed into a corner.

It was a dingy little place. It used to have carpet, but you removed that in favor of plastic tarp on the floor, nothing that could indefinitely stain the cement underneath. The walls were covered in that as well, and there was no window or clock to let him know the time. There were blankets to the side, and a small toilet to the other corner of the room. It was a good enough place for now. You hated seeing him in these conditions, but only once he proved responsible would you update him to a secured bedroom. At this point in time, he wasn’t capable of understanding things, and would only try to run away if you gave him more freedom. 

Jonathan stayed quiet for a long while, and so did you, but then he scoffed. “I’m not eating that.”

Frowning, you bent down to his level. You placed the bowl in front of him, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and honey filling the stale air. “It's not poisoned, you know that.”

Jonathan did know that. He was smart enough to realize that a person wouldn’t go through all the effort of bringing him here, only to poison him. There needn’t be a conversation over this. He didn’t reach for the bowl yet, but you knew he would when you left. Eventually, hunger would get to him. 

“Are you in love with me?” he asked next.

Yes, yes I am. I love you as true as the air you breathe, as blue as your eyes gleam, and as certain as the beat of your heart. 

“Why do you ask?” you said instead.

“Your eyes are always dilated, you can’t keep them off of me. Not at the bus station, the coffee shop.” He paused. “You’re sick. I’m not in love with you. Whatever fantasy you have is not real.”

“You may not be in love with me now, but you will be soon.”

There was no point in hiding your intentions. 

He scoffed again, head down. “Realize this, I have nothing. Whatever you want from me, I can’t give you.”

Reaching out to him, you rubbed your thumb against his skin. He was cold. Again. 

“You need to learn how to keep warm,” you said, concerned. “There’s some blankets. Use them.”

Jonathan pulled away, though you could tell he wanted you to keep doing that, because for a brief moment he almost leaned into your touch and warmth. So, you did just that. You gripped his chin and forced him to look at you. He put up a bit of a struggle, but in the end, he relented, and let you caress his skin. Letting your fingers trail up his cheek to his nose, you quickly made your way to his eyelashes, his long, thick eyelashes that fluttered like a black bird’s feathers. 

“I did a bit of research on you,” you said. “Just enough to make sure no one would come looking for you right away, to learn your patterns and your habits, or any other important bits of information . . . like the fact that you have a therapist.”

Jonathan looked straight into your eyes. It was almost as if, at the moment, he was more concerned about what you might have read about him than his current predicament. He didn’t want anyone to know his past, his secrets, his weaknesses. It was embarrassing, and you knew that because you read in his file — which took atrociously long to obtain — how ashamed he was of himself, how conscious. 

He shoved you away, and you backed off.

“Don’t be mean,” you frowned, hurt. “It was necessary. Watching you through your window wasn’t enough to truly know you. And even now, I’m sure there’s so much I’ve missed. It’ll be nice. As long as you listen and don’t cause trouble, everything will be okay.”

“You’re delusional,” he scowled. “I’ve known enough people like you in my life to understand how you work. Once you’re tired of me, you’ll dump me and get someone new to torment.”

“That’s not true, and you’ll see that,” you protested. It broke you to know that he thought of himself as expendable. “. . . I know you need some time to think. I’ll come down in a few hours with lunch, alright?”

You took his silence as a ‘yes’.

“Good boy.”

+++

A few weeks had passed by. The snow was beginning to melt, turning into a mushy, brown sludge that you had to trudge through every morning to get to work. Admittedly, you were quite busy with your job, but you made as much time as you could for Jonathan. Your doll was in a sour mood the entire time, and after calling you a bitch and a unintelligent, perverted whore — such colorful language — he started begging you to let him go.

I won’t tell anyone. I’ll give you money. Please, I’m begging you. All clearly signs of emotional distress.

It hurt you a lot when Jonathan rejected your affection. More than you thought it would. He should be grateful that you took such an interest in him, but instead he was disgusted. Of course, he would fall for you soon, but it made you wish that he had already done so, and that too on the night you two met. 

Wouldn’t it have been romantic? Love at first sight. Did you not deserve something like that? For someone to look into your eyes the way you did his and think, This is the one I want to marry. Again, you knew it would take time, but the wound still cut deep. 

He was eating, which was good. One less thing to worry about. But when you checked his wrists to see if the cuffs were still locked you found them red with marks. It worried you a bit, so you applied some cream to them — or at least, tried to, with the way he was struggling and all. You did other things like bathe him, but despite how desperate you were to see his pretty cock, you never went beyond the waistline, and encouraged him to clean himself down there instead. You hoped it established some sense of trust between you two, because at least Jonathan would realize that you would never do anything to make him uncomfortable. 

When you were researching Jonathan Crane — before you took him — you learned that he was a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. A professor at Gotham University first, but either way, it seemed that his heart lied with the sciences. You did a little internet digging and tracked his book orders, then picked something you thought he would like and was sure he hadn’t read yet.

One book on chemistry and its applications on brain science, and another on psychology, a look into real-world examples written by a doctor from the late twentieth century. 

Carefully wrapping it up in light blue paper, you tied it with a navy-colored ribbon and made a bow. Your fingers lingered on the box, a little nervous about handing it over to Jonathan, but you walked downstairs with it anyways, opening the basement door and watching with satisfaction as he scurried away once again.

“It’s just a gift,” you laughed, setting it down in front of him. He watched it warily. “I want you to open it. I hope you’ll like it.”

Jonathan’s lower lip quivered, and you had a sudden desire to kiss him. Lips upon lips, heavy and sweet. Sometimes, you felt as though the only way to get close to him — truly close — was to peel off his skin and wrap it around you. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? He would die, which you didn’t want, but to think about it was enough. It was so intimate it made you hot all over. 

“Please,” Jonathan muttered. “Please let me go. I’ll do anything.”

You sighed. “I don’t want to hear this again. I’ve been really patient with you. Can’t you just . . . be normal?”

“Normal?” 

Oh, dear. He’s about to go into another one of his fits.

“How can you expect me to be normal when you’ve got me locked in chains?” he frowned. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t getting upset, but rather more submissive. He wasn’t scowling or spitting in your face, but rather his head was downturned and his body language more open. Was this it? Was this the point of breaking? 

“I have nothing,” he continued. “No bed to sleep in, no touch . . .”

Touch. Well, he had you, didn’t he? 

“You don’t like it when I touch you,” you said.

He looked away, almost embarrassed. This doll of a man had you completely enamored, fooled, like a hopeless soul waiting for the heavens. Anything he did, anything he said, would make you fold in a heartbeat. If he asked you to go get the moon, you would die, frozen in the vastness of space just trying. He could make you do anything, except perhaps let you go, but only because you knew that deep down, he didn’t really want it.

Jonathan didn’t make an effort to come closer to you, and you didn’t either. Despite your devotion, you wanted to see him make the first move. You had waited long enough. All you wanted was to be loved by him, and you knew that he had it in him to show his affection. He just feared you, feared that you would hurt him.

. . . Maybe a few more days. A few more days of waiting until you would take drastic action.

+++

Laying on the couch, you turned on the TV, opening up the Gotham news channel as background noise while you dozed off. There were a few errands to be done, but you decided to put them off until tomorrow as the weather had gotten worse. It wasn’t raining anymore, and the snow was still brown and mushy, but it was freezing, and you made the stupid mistake of leaving your car outside. 

After ten minutes of just lazing around, you were abruptly woken up by the ring of your doorbell. With a groan, you got up off the couch and unlocked the door, only for your nerves to jump and a nervous chuckle escape your lips.

“I — well, hi. Can I help you, officer?” you asked, looking the man in front of you up and down. He had wispy brown hair that was covered by a fur hoodie and a kind smile painted on his face. He didn’t look like he meant any harm, but perhaps this was just a facade to get your guard down. For all you knew there could be police officers stationed all around your house. Or were you being too paranoid? Yes. You probably were. 

“You can,” he said, voice a little gruff. “My name is Peter Wright, I just wanna ask you a few questions. May I come inside?”

You hesitated. “What's this about?”

Wright chuckled, but didn’t answer. “Do you know a man named Jonathan Crane? You may have just passed him on the street — he had dark hair, glasses, clean-cut . . .”

Your mind ran through all the possibilities. There was absolutely no way this man could know you two even met. You were so careful — so unbelievably careful. Was there something you had overlooked? Something you had missed? Maybe someone saw you with Jonathan and reported it to the police once they realized he was missing.

“. . . No.”

Wright smiled. “No need to be so tense. We just wanna know where he is.”

You smiled, trying to be friendly. “I’m sorry, sir, I have no clue who that is. You probably have the wrong person — ”

“ — yeah, figured,” Wright interrupted, flashing another smile. “He’s been missing for a while. You’re not in trouble, we just have to check every lead.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” you said. “May I ask, why have I become a . . . lead?”

“Just some security footage on a date of interest. You had crossed the street at a bus station.” Wright paused for a moment, seeing if you remembered anything. You did, but you kept your face blank. It was better to pretend. It made you relieved, however. This was nothing serious, and nothing that was your fault. “He wrote it down in one of his journal entries, that’s why we checked.”

“Journal entries?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Yes. That’s how all these smart people are like, or so I’ve been told. Methodical, pattern-orientated.”

Was he even supposed to be telling you this? It seemed like this man was more loose-lipped than he first appeared. Perhaps you could pull some information out of him, turn on your charm. 

“You know what? Come inside. It’s cold, and I can make you some hot coffee.”

“Really?” Wright raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re getting let me in?”

You gave a playful glare. “I’m not gonna ask again, sir.”

Wright obliged, and for the rest of the evening, he divulged information about the case, a little too flirtatious for your taste, but it got the work done, and by the end of the day, you learned that they had nothing on you, and nothing on this case. 

+++

“Jonathan,” you cooed as you entered the basement with a plate of mashed potatoes and steak. You immediately noticed that his knuckles were bloody, and realized what he was trying to do — he must have heard another person upstairs and banged against the concrete walls in the hopes that he would’ve been heard.

What a stupid boy!

“Hold on,” you muttered, annoyed, placing the food down. “I’ll get you some bandages — ”

“ — Can’t you just be here?” Jonathan said shakily, his voice hoarse. “You said you loved me but you never spend time with me, you’re always upstairs . . . I’m going insane.”

Your heart leaped. Finally. Finally! It was happening. He was beginning to see, to truly see the connection you both had. You could envision it already — a wedding, with only an eficator there to make things legitimate, with flowers and a beautiful background, perhaps a sunset or beach, or maybe some mountains — topped with snow. That would be perfect, absolutely wonderful. Oh, you would have to start making the plans now! 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” You snapped out of your thoughts. “Oh, no. No, darling. I’m just so excited, I’ve been waiting so long . . . Here, can I hold you?”

Jonathan nodded with a sniffle. 

Not wasting a single moment, you wrapped him up in your arms, watching as he delicately snuggled his head in the crook of your neck. The feeling of his hair brushing up against your skin was exhilarating, making you shudder and shake like you were about to lose it. About to lose it and take him right then and there, all romantic like, with nice words and the scent of rose petals . . . Maybe your first time could be in a bath, with lit candles, cleaning each other off. It was —

Hold on. Where was his chain?

Jonathan’s arms were around your waist, but you couldn’t feel the metal. You looked to the hook on the wall and saw that it had broken off, next to it the psychology book you gave to him, heavily dented. 

Chasting yourself, you felt Jonathan tighten his grip around your body. You should have checked — you should have checked for the chain like you did every time you came down. What was wrong with you? This one simple mistake could ruin everything . . . 

Trying to think as quickly as you could, you looked around the room for the other book, but couldn’t find it anywhere. You had a sedative syringe in your pocket, but you couldn’t get to it without alerting him. Alas, you finally felt something poking you in the side, something sharp like an edge, and within seconds you had been tossed to the floor and hit over the head.

+++

When you finally woke up, your head was reeling. You had a massive headache, and everytime you tried to sit up your vision would go a little dark and you would give up. Before you could try again, you had a hand against your throat. You felt a horrible surge of anger, and in the midst of your emotions, a slight sense of arousal.

“After everything I’ve done for you?” you cried out, voice choked. You could feel a shift in movement, because after Jonathan realized he was hurting you, he loosened his grip, but it still wasn’t enough to get out of his grasp. He probably tried to open the basement door but couldn’t, so waited until you came to give him the passcode. You couldn’t rely on the hope that he wouldn’t hurt you. He was desperate. But so were you.

“Everything you’ve done,” he repeated with a low murmur. “You know how humiliating it is to be trapped in a basement for a month, forced to bathe in front of you because I can’t even be trusted with a flow of water? Have to piss with chains on? I’m a doctor, I shouldn’t have to submit to your delusion.”

“You should and you will!” you screeched, squirming. “You finally have someone to love you, to adore you, someone who would do anything for you, and it’s still not enough. Or you know what? Maybe you like that. Being sad all the time, not having anyone to care for you. Probably used to it, huh? Distant parents, bitch grandmother, no friends, no lovers . . .”

Jonathan tossed you to the floor and pinned you down, his nose close to yours, breathing heavy, eyes a little glossy. Then, without warning, he slapped you. The sting was both painful and pleasurable. The little whimper you let out was more of a light sigh, but you didn’t let that distract you. All you needed to do was reach into your pocket for the syringe, which he clearly hadn’t noticed was there. If you could drug him just a little, you would be able to get your power back, your control.

“I want the code. That’s it.”

“I want a kiss.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just one kiss. A nice, long one.”

Jonathan thought for a moment. His breath tickled your skin. Then, he leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, and brushed his perfect, pink lips against yours. He was so easily manipulated, so eager. Even when he had all the power, he still fell for your little antic. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to kiss you.

While he was distracted, you swiftly took the syringe out and stabbed him with it, pushing half the liquid in. He pulled away and gasped, but then his eyes started drooping, and his movements became more wobbly, and he fell into your arms, disorientated and dizzy.

“Mm . . . what did you do?” he asked. 

You grabbed his hair, making him wince in pain. “You know, I’ve been trying so hard to be patient, not rushing you, making you feel as safe as possible” You paused. “But sometimes people aren’t grateful for what they have. That’s okay, it happens. You just have to learn. I’ll be patient again, just for you.”

You laid him on his back and started unbuckling his pants belt. He tried to stop you, but his movements were too weak and groggy.

“Don’t — don’t,” he pleaded.

You stopped, but only for the time being. You lifted him up onto his feet and let him lean against you. His feet were dragging a little against the floor, but he managed to walk. He pulled himself away from you when you made it to the top of the stairs but stumbled. He just wasn’t strong enough. You unlocked the passcode.

You led him over to the bathroom on your first floor, where you opened the tub’s tap and let the water flow. Jonathan’s eyelids drooped slightly, but you could see — smell — the fear in them. He knew what you were going to do, and he was helpless to stop it. 

Taking off the rest of his belt, you pulled his cock out. White, soft, a little big, but other than that it was perfect, just like every other part of him. You brushed your finger across it, watching the way it twitched in your hands. Unable to stop yourself, you leaned down and gave the head a small kiss, but that was the last bit of kindness Jonathan was going to receive today. In fact, receive for a long while.

You dipped your hand in the tub, which was steadily flowing with water, and gave his cock a hard squeeze, making him whimper in pain. “That’s the closest to lube you’ll get,” you said. “Now come on, don’t fight me. Dip your face in.”

Pushing his head down into the tub wasn’t much of a struggle, but Jonathan wasn’t making it easy. Your doll, your poor doll. He didn’t want to be hurt, but that was what had to happen. And it would keep happening until he finally admitted that he loved you. 

When Jonathan’s nose touched the water, he groaned, his head dizzy. It was cold, but by the time he could even register the temperature, his entire head was in, held by your hand as your other stroked his cock. A few air bubbles came up, but you didn’t give in. You wanted him to struggle, you wanted him to be in pain. He was like a fragile mouse caught in a trap. Only you could let him go. Only you had the power to.

After a few more seconds, you lifted his head up, watching with glee as he gasped for air, coughing and sputtering when he could spare it. 

“Aw, baby boy. You don’t like that very much, do you?”

He shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him. You just shoved him down into the tub again, feeling your body tingle. You swiped your finger over that little hole where you would soon force cum to shoot out of, and pressed down on it hard. Then, you found your way to his balls, slightly pulling at the small hairs there. Pinching and squeezing. His thighs shook, so you slapped them. They were another beautiful part of his body.

You continued pumping, up and down, steadily, then pulled him out. You could feel some pre-cum on your hands . . . even when you were torturing him he couldn’t control his biological reactions.

When he came up for the second time, he begged, “Please — I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . Mercy, I can’t!”

His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead, and water was running down from his chin to his chest underneath the plain white shirt you had given him. His nipples were perked, probably from all the adrenaline, but you liked to think that it was because he was aroused. 

“You can and you will,” you growled. “Take it. Take it!”

+++

When you were finished with him, you took him back down to the basement, his cock hanging limp through the zipper area of his pants, and tossed him to the floor. Noticing one of the books you gifted him on the ground, you picked it up and threw it at him. It hit his leg, and within seconds, he passed out. 

You locked the door and left him like that for the next few days. No food, no water, no nothing. Through the camera you could see that he was barely moving. He only got up to use the toilet, but other than that, he was like a slug. It was on the third day that you decided to go down again and nourish him, otherwise he might die, and you didn't want that, not after all this hard work. 

ii.

Jonathan Crane was respected throughout the city of Gotham, a known and reputable psychiatrist amongst others in his field, as well as connected with higher elites who often funded his projects, his small passions. Never did he think he would ever end up in someone’s basement, that too the basement of a beauty. 

He had gotten into a car accident while pulling out of Akrham’s parking lot. It was a stupid mistake, not even his fault, really. The curb was so narrow and it was difficult to see past the line of trees whether another car was coming or not, and in his rush to get home, he went ahead without thinking and collided with a red Sedan.

No one was injured, but his car was beat up, and after getting it towed, he had to walk all the way to the nearest bus station (which was very far away, as the aslyum was rather secluded). It was cold, and he wasn’t dressed for this weather at all. He tried to take his mind off the temperature by looking at his watch, the tick-tick ticking, but when he finally got there, he found that the bus was not coming at all. It had been fifteen minutes, and nothing was there. The entire street was surprisingly empty for a city as busy as Gotham, with only the occasional patrol car driving past.

He was about ready to head to the subway — another long trek — when he saw someone else standing across the street. It was a woman, he could tell from the figure, but she was shrouded in darkness . . . Maybe she was waiting for the bus as well.

“Hey, excuse me, ma’am!” he shouted out, hoping not to startle her. He knew how women could get, all scared and skittish when they were alone. He understood. Crime rates were high, rape and theft were common. Even he was on his guard right now. 

“Yes?” the woman answered hesitantly. 

“Do you know when the bus will arrive?” Jonathan asked. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes — the sign said it would arrive at seven.”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m waiting for it as well. Do you mind if I cross?”

Jonathan hadn’t expected that, but agreed nonetheless. He found it a bit odd that she was waiting on the other side of the road, but figured that she might have only just arrived. When she crossed, the light of the street lamps hit her face and he was taken aback. She was awfully pretty — beautiful, in fact. She was looking at him with almost dazed eyes, a nervous expression upon her face. He couldn’t tell if she found him attractive, or if she was intimidated by him. Most people were. 

They had a short conversation that eventually ended. Jonathan would head down to the subway station, and the woman had opted to call her friend to pick her up. He was a little disappointed. She seemed interesting, and there was no harm in continuing their conversation, but he was also tired and in no mood to convince her to come along with him. 

He was about to leave when she asked him for his name. “Jonathan. Dr. Jonathan Crane,” he clarified.

“Jonathan,” she repeated. For a moment, he felt ill at ease. Maybe it was the reminder that he was in the middle of an empty street at night, or the way she looked at him as she repeated his name. He shook it off, he was just being silly. 

The woman gave him her name — your name, a nice name. He didn’t know what it was about you, but for the rest of the day you were on his mind. It was enough to make him mention you in his journal, mention with a flow of compliments that ranged from beautiful to almost sinister.

+++

Jonathan had always had a bit of a problem when it came to people. As a child he was ostracized and bullied for his gangly body, and in his adulthood, he had always come off as too unnerving for others. It probably didn’t help that he was arrogant and assuming, too. When it came to lovers, he could get quite obsessive, a problem that broke most of his relationships. Apparently no one liked it when their boyfriends were possessive.

He’d had a few affairs before, but nothing ever serious. He could never find someone he liked enough to marry. On the surface, he semed like the kind of guy that was more interested in his work than anything romantic, but in the end he had been raised with typical values, and as much as he tried to shake it off, he really felt like his path in life was to work, marry, have children, and then die.

When he was a kid his grandmother, Keeny, stressed upon him the importance of finding a good Christian wife. She must be a virgin, submissive, good-natured, and so on. He was sure she had already picked someone from their small town for him, because she was oddly pushy towards this one Church girl who liked to have ribbons in her braids (that was all he really remembered of her). Jonathan wondered what his grandmother thought of him now. Despite all the bad memories associated with her, he still sent letters with money every once in a while. She responded sometimes, mostly with pleas for him to come back, but he never paid them any mind. He was done with her and Georgia. 

In his mind, his ideal wife would be an intellectual just like him. Preferably smart, but not as smart as him, who was just as clingy as he was, who understood and could care for him, and who was perhaps a little more on the dominant side. He was always embarrassed with the fact that he liked dominant women, but wasn’t going to let that stop him from finding one, or at least, hoping one would find him.

“So, you’re opening yourself up to new relationships,” his therapist, Dr. Taylor Smith said, an encouraging smile on her face. Jonathan had been with her for years, and while they were strictly professional, Jonathan couldn’t help but be slightly attached to her. It was what happened when someone gave him even the slightest ounce of affection.

“I suppose so,” Jonathan responded, not knowing what else to say.

“If you’re ready for it, I think you should go out and start talking to people,” Smith suggested. “You have a lot of colleagues, you could start there.”

Jonathan frowned. “They’ve stopped asking me to lunches.”

“Because you decline all the time?”

“Probably.”

“Then why don’t you ask them first?”

Jonathan frowned again. “I’d rather not.”

Smith gave a knowing look. “And how do you suppose to meet people, then?”

Jonathan didn’t want to answer. He knew he was being silly, but he just didn’t want to be the one to make the first move. Eventually someone would come along and ask him out, right? He just had to wait a little . . . Perhaps he could loiter around some bookstores or near the lectures he attended so he could meet a woman who was like-minded.

“Look,” Smith said, intertwining her hands. “Before we meet again next week, I want you to have made an effort towards a relationship. Friendship would be a good start.”

“I have friends. Harleen is — fine,” Jonathan relented, after seeing the glare his therapist was giving. “I’ll do that. It’ll be my homework,” he joked, but on the inside he was thoroughly annoyed.

+++

Jonathan’s first idea was to go to a coffee shop. He had been starved for some caffeine and decided that instead of making one at home he could go out and get one. He parked his car in a nearby garage and walked over to a local shop. It had a long line of impatient-looking people, moody, too, at that.

He took his place in line, inhaling the sweet aroma of the atmosphere. A few people were working, typing away at their laptops, while others were with their friends or family or partners. He tried to look as casual as possible, sweeping his hair over his forehead every once in a while, but then he stopped, feeling stupid.

He felt like a kid back in highschool trying to get a girl’s attention. Everyone here was either already with someone or rushing to get out. It was a dumb idea. He’d just get his coffee and leave.

Maybe he could just ask his coworkers at the asylum. They were nice enough, and it would probably do good on his work relationships if he made an effort on them.

When he got to the counter he ordered a small latte and went on his way, but after turning the corner he bumped into someone. They were holding a cup of coffee — from the same cafe he just went to. The cap, which must not have been applied properly, fell to the ground, and all the hot, brown liquid splashed onto both him and . . . and . . . the lady from the bus station?

Jonathan hissed at the burning sensation, but restrained himself from letting out a small scream. A few people stopped and turned to look at them. A few of them in pity, others stifling their giggles, while one man offered to go get some napkins.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman — you — said, grabbing some napkins from the man and wiping your blouse off.

Jonathan glared.

“What is wrong with you?” he sneered, his face contorted in controlled disgust. “Are you stalking me?”

“What? I don’t — look, I’m really sorry, sir,” you fervently apologized, which made Jonathan feel a bit bad. “Here — some napkins — ”

“ — Don’t bother,” Jonathan said, looking down at his suit, though his tone was a bit softer. 

There was a moment of silence. Jonathan admired your features for those few moments, and thought back to how he wrote about you in his journal. His cheeks flushed a light pink at the memory. Imagine what would happen if you found out . . .

“Aren’t you going to say sorry, too?”

Jonathan sighed, getting annoyed again. “I’m sorry,” but it was sarcastic. 

“I want to hear a genuine apology,” you said, but before Jonathan could say anything, you continued, “That or . . . you buy me another cup of coffee and we go our separate ways.”

Jonathan was caught off guard, but he realized that it was the perfect opportunity to do what he came here for: make a friend. And she was so obviously flirting. 

“Alright. But we’ll be quick. I have to change.”

You chuckled. “Okay, okay.”

You both walked back to the coffee shop, standing in line as you looked over the menu. Jonathan wondered what to say.

“It’s quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” he said, feeling sticky as his dress shirt stuck to his skin. “We meet at the bus station, then here . . .”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused.

Jonathan couldn’t believe that you didn’t remember. “I introduced myself to you. Dr. Jonathan Crane. And you told me your name.”

You thought for a moment, eyes dazed for a few seconds, but when you looked back at him you shook your head. “I-I suppose you look familiar, but I don’t really remember . . . I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright.”

Eventually, you both got up to the front. You ordered another coffee and Jonathan paid with his card. This time, he made sure your lid was secured on properly. When he got out of the cafe for the second time that day, he felt disappointed that he had to leave you again.

At the bus station he had let you go, and was he about to do the same thing here? No. He would try, shoot his chance. If it didn't work, so what? He would get over it.

“I can walk you back to your car,” Jonathan offered, taking a sip of his coffee, which thankfully he didn’t drop when he bumped into you. 

“I don’t want to bother you,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s all the way down the road.”

“I insist,” he said. 

You smiled. It was such a sweet smile, Jonathan wished he could igraine the memory into his mind forever. 

“What do you do for work?” he asked, trying to make light conversation.

“Real estate,” you responded. “You?”

“I’m a psychiatrist . . .”

He didn’t mention the fact that he worked at Arkham. It was infamous in Gotham, and not that great of a conversation starter. Jonathan didn’t want this to turn into an interview about what it’s like to work there, how the patients were, and so on.

When you and Jonathan reached your car, he felt that odd sense of dread again. He was near a closed-off area behind a shop. It was one of those places that had parking lots for behind a store, and was shaped almost like a square. The shop was closed, and there was only one car in the area — presumably yours.

“Sorry,” you apologized with a laugh after seeing the look on his face. “There was no parking nearby. I’m actually kind of glad you walked me . . . it’s a little scary all by myself.”

“It’s fine. I understand,” Jonathan said with a shrug, ignoring his instincts. He walked you to the car, and before he knew what was happening, he was knocked out. 

+++

The chains clinked against the others in the link, the cuffs tugging against Jonathan Crane’s skin, pulled so hard it restricted the blood flow. It was only then he stopped, and let a defeated sigh escape his lips. His head leaned against the wall and his posture slumped. Since he woke up he had been trying to get out of this place — out of this basement, it looked to be. His thoughts flooded his head a million times, and it was impossible for him to produce a semblance of coherent thinking. He begged his brain to stop working, to just be quiet for a moment so he could control his emotions and focus, but it wouldn’t. It left him tired and confused and scared.

What happened to me?

Why am I here?

Was that woman responsible for this? Did she kidnap me? Oh god, she kidnapped me.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

People are going to notice I’m missing. The police will come for me, I’ll be fine.

No they won’t. It’s Gotham, no one will do anything about it.

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut. Stop it. Stop thinking.

After a while, he got his thoughts to quiet, but before he could be rational, the padlock clicked and the door opened. He backed into a corner — well, as far as his binding would let him, and his suspicions were confirmed.

It was you. You were his captor. His doom.

You placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Cinnamon and honey filled the air. It had little pieces of apple cut up, and even some chocolate chips on the side. It was absolutely heavenly, and Jonathan could feel his mouth water at just the sight of it. He restrained himself, however. He was not that hungry, at least not yet, and he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t poisioned. 

“I’m not eating that.”

Frowning, you bent down to his level. “It's not poisoned, you know that.”

Jonathan did know that. He was smart enough to realize that a person wouldn’t go through all the effort of bringing him here, only to poison him. 

“Are you in love with me?” he asked next.

“Why do you ask?” you said instead. Avoiding the question.

“Your eyes are always dilated, you can’t keep them off of me. Not at the bus station, the coffee shop.” He paused. “You’re sick. I’m not in love with you. Whatever fantasy you have is not real.”

“You may not be in love with me now, but you will be soon.”

Was it wrong that for a moment Jonathan felt nice? In all his life, he never had someone care for him, but here, someone had gone through the effort of kidnapping him just to be with him. He felt stupid for thinking like that. This wasn’t some story, it was reality, and in reality, you didn’t actually love him. You were obsessed. Obsessed . . . Was he that incapable of being loved that people had to either hate him or obsess over him like an object? Was there no in-between? 

There were a few more words exchanged. You brushed your fingers against his skin, and though he pulled away, he couldn’t deny the affection rising within him. No one had ever touched him this gently before, this kindly.

You left, leaving Jonathan alone in the cold, dark room. After a few moments of hesitation, he reached for the bowl, and began eating.

+++

A few weeks had passed by. Jonathan couldn’t tell if the weather outside had begun to turn warm, or if it was still as cold as the last time he saw it. He never knew what time it was unless you came down with food, and even then, he was probably a couple of hours off. As he spent time in that basement, searching for a way out, he felt a sense of desperate hopelessness creep onto him. Would he ever make it out alive?

He couldn’t believe that he was even in this situation. After insulting you and calling you names, he resorted to fervent begging, but even that wasn’t enough to make you let him go. In your delusion you had made his life a misery. He couldn’t keep living in your basement like some sort of pet, forced to bathe in front of you and constantly monitored by cameras.

Maybe Jonathan would have liked you better if you actually gave him a nice room to sleep in. Or if you made something other than acai bowls and fruit smoothies all the time.

He could see it in your eyes that you truly believed you loved him, and it made him feel scared. While he overviewed cases like this and met people with the same mentality to kidnap and stalk, he still didn’t know what to do. In a part of his brain, he thought that maybe you weren’t so bad and that you could have been torturing him right now, but instead was being kind and thoughtful. 

You tried to apply cream to his bruised wrists, and you didn’t even scold him for trying to get out of the handcuffs. He made it a difficult process, but it was because he was afraid. He had never been touched like that before. You were making him feel all sorts of things — anger, confusion, fear. 

It didn’t help when you brought down a present for him. A book on chemistry, and another on psychology. It was wrapped in a box, which was wrapped in a light-blue color. Why were you so sweet? In all his years, he had never gotten a present as meaningful as this. His heart had wrenched uncomfortably, and he had to remind himself who you were, what type of person you were.

Maybe if he used this book to hit you over the head with, it would knock you out and he could escape. He could use it to break the chains, too. They were hardcover, and th

———

(I stopped writing here.)

The rest of this section was just going to be through Jonathan’s perspective.

iii.

You opened the door hesitantly, a wave of guilt flooding your body. Jonathan lay there on the floor, beaten and bruised, shivering in a corner even though he had a blanket around him. He didn’t smell good, but you expected it to be worse, so you took it as a sign that things could still be salvaged.

———

(I stopped writing here).

Jonathan is passed out, barely able to move. For the next few days, you nurse him back to health. You clean him, feed him, and give him better clothing. He doesn’t fight back. Slowly, he starts to accept his new environment and you upgrade him to a guest bedroom, but you still lock the doors and windows so he can’t escape.

The police officer comes back to flirt. You’re annoyed, but you know you need him for info. The police officer starts to get suspicious, and out of fear he’ll do something, you murder him. The murder is sort of the climax of the story.

After that whole ordeal, Jonathan has been completely conditioned by you, but the ending is open-ended. “The Doll’s Burial” is meant to represent a burial of his true self, replaced by a version you created, or, his actual death. It depends on you — do you get bored of him, is it truly an obsession? Or do you truly love him, and are willing to spend your whole life as his wife?

Tagging in case ya'll are still interested: @shroombloom-rry @madnessandobsession @henrywintersdearestgirl @hllywdwhre @your-nanas-house @ellebelleshelby @Meetmeatyourworst @hanawrites404 @Emimurphy2008

@nela-cutie

@slut4thebroken

@wild-rose-35

@madeinuk

@flwrs4aust

@httpxgray

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Daughter

The man who was not a man held the girl's limp head, kneeling on the fine marble floor. All the riches in the world meant nothing compared to that small, lean body splayed out on the floor. He would have given up everything he owned, everything he knew, everything he was, if only he could see her lopsided smile again.

“Andrea,” he murmured, begging, pleading, praying. “Andrea, Andrea, Andrea.”

She did not respond. He knew she would not. Knowing, with absolute certainty, was one of those things that came of being a not-man. From the second he had set his eyes on that fierce face, on those calloused hands, he had known this would end horribly.

He took a deep breath, ready to give a eulogy, ready to say goodbye, ready to close this chapter of his book. But the only thing he managed to close was his mouth.

No, he couldn't think of it, say it, do it. He wouldn't. It hurt, the way only foolishness could hurt. It hurt like bloody hell I dropped the cup again, like say what is that flower, like oi watch your tongue old bastard. It hurt beyond all the pretty words he so often used, in the lands where incoherent screams and broken silence lay.

He should never have taken her in, never have patched up that infected eye, never taught her letters and painting and all the beautiful things a runaway-child warrior had never known. It was a mistake. A horrible mistake that had fortunately rectified itself. A mistake that was over now, so he could return to his daily life and never acknowledge her existence again.

And yet- And yet- And yet- He could hear her gasps of wonder at his little knick-knacks, taste that awful pie she would make with her assorted gatherings, smell the wildflowers she left at his table every morning. He felt her fingers tugging at his robes, arms thrown about his neck in thanks, feet treading on his hooves. 

That eidetic memory of his had betrayed him, for once; not in weakness, but in its perfection, in that detailed reel of her malnourished stick-thin body shooting up and filling out, of that scraggly hair growing lush as the tallgrass, of their time together played over. And over. And. Over.

She named him, with the simplicity of a child's imagination. 'N', for the way his arms bent thrice, at the wrist, elbow, and that third joint he had no name for. She wove crowns of the freshest daisies every year to grace his head, and mad, and promised to defend him with her life, and made good on it too. She had given him so many gifts, and he had but one to give her.

Deep in the crevices of his mind, he remembered a word. He had no use for it, there being only one of his kind, but her used it anyway, then. 

“Daughter,” he named her, a fair exchange for that which she had given him. “My daughter, Andrea. I love you so much. I promised you a safe home, one where none would ever harm you again. I-”

Words failed him again. N cradled her body against him, keening as he did so, a long, agonised noise like a wolf's howl. He pulled her fingers to his chest and wept into them.

Alas, his duty extended beyond merely mourning. She deserved a proper farewell, like the little warrior she was.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I apologise. I apologise a thousand times over. I have failed you, my daughter.” He knew she would die, as all mortals did. He knew it would hurt. But how could a bloodless wound hurt so very much?

He would have wrenched open his chest to dig out his heart if he had one. He would have slit his throat if he could die from it. He would have done anything if it would undo his mistake.

No, that was a lie. He could undo his mistake. He knew how to bring her back. Knowledge, especially the forbidden sort, was his specialty. It would be so, so very simple. A city razed, blood pricked from an infant's heart, and a sacrifice of true love. That he could do in an instant, just to have his daughter back.

But for all his love and heartache, he was no man. He did not have man's selfishness, man's free will, man's ability to give up a thousand lives for just the one. He could not do it, not without giving up a part of his soul. So he did not.

The man who was not a man laid his daughter back down. He was not quite sure what to do with a corpse. He had never had one before, after all. 

Then again, he had never had a daughter before.

(in honour of my dad's birthday <3)

Taglist: @coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west, @differentnighttale

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable, @paeliae-occasionally, @an-indecisive-nerd, @thecomfywriter

@seastarblue, @wyked-ao3

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[emmabirb8]

Bill Cipher really is the funkiest little guy, isn't he?

He's a demon. He had parents. He destroyed his home dimension save for one singular atom. He was born different from the rest of his people and could see in 3D. He's a narcissistic maniac. He misses his mommy. He's a cruel, manipulative asshole. He accidentally got a little too attached and fell in love with a human, then had a drunken meltdown when they broke up. He created a throne of frozen human agony and tried to kill two twelve year olds.

He's incredibly lonely.

Personally, my biggest takeaway from The Book of Bill is the confirmation that my suspicions about him are (most likely) correct. Bill Cipher is miserable. He's been miserable since losing his family and entire home dimension, and everything he's done since then is nothing but one big attempt to distract himself from his mistakes.

Like, okay. I get that Bill is a master manipulator. He's a big fat liar, and everything he says and does is meant to be taken with a grain of salt. He wants readers and viewers to feel bad for him. He wants us to sympathize and woobify and get attached so he can use that to his advantage. BUT ALSO, I think The Book of Bill still sheds light on the fact that he IS broken deep down.

Everything that we know of Bill is almost entirely a meticulously constructed facade. He's a faker. He's all smoke and mirrors. He suffered a massive trauma (whether it happened on purpose or by accident is up for debate since he is nothing if not a horrendously unreliable narrator), and he had to find some way to cope. So he decided to live in denial. Denial of his failures, his true feelings, and, ultimately, everything that he is. He described the "entity" that destroyed his home dimension as a "monster," and, knowing what we know, that's what he believes about himself. He told Ford the answer of who that entity was would "eat [him] alive" and, in actuality, I think that was more of a thinly veiled admission that his deep-seated guilt over what he did eats him alive. Bill buried that guilt, all those negative feelings, all his mistakes deep, DEEP down, and then decided that if he was a monster, he might as well be a damn fierce one.

Bill became great at manipulation because that was the key to making his whole scheme work -- if he could control what everyone thought of him, make people fear him, bend them to his will and squeeze whatever he can out of them, he could be the meanest, nastiest, most cunning monster to ever exist, and he could keep living in denial. They can't make fun of you for your differences, for being weird (something I suspect happened to him in his home dimension) if you're the KING of weird and can kill with the snap of your fingers. If they fear you, they won't look too closely, into the tiny minuscule cracks in your facade, and see the painful truth.

Bill leaned hard into his role as Nightmare Demon to fool himself into believing all of that too.

But like I said, he's lonely. He has no one (besides his "henchmaniacs," but they're no substitute for real connection). I find it SO interesting how he speaks to Ford in The Book of Bill. "We both know you don't really want to be left alone. Admit it, you LOVE how important I make you feel. . . . [N]obody else really gets you, do they? Without me, you'll always feel unseen, surrounded by dolts who don't recognize your true potential. You've always felt alone in a crowd, haven't you? . . . you have no friends, and if you died out here in the snow, who would even miss you?" -- I think he's projecting. Those are all things that are true about himself and his connection to Ford, but he's pinning it on Ford because he can't bring himself to face it head on.

Bill Cipher is a villain. He's evil. He's a demon. He really did ALL OF THAT.

But he is also a pathetic dorky sopping wet meow meow of a character who is constantly desperately trying to run away from himself.

And now, in the Theraprism, he has no access to his usual coping mechanisms. He has no choice but to finally face reality and figure out a way to do what he's been avoiding doing for literal millennia: to just be.

[thessaralka]

seeing people hate on Solas for being ethically inconsistent like??? yes??? that's the whole tragedy of his character. he literally cannot be ethically consistent in the world state HE CREATED. that's why he's so damn sad. it's impossible for him to live with good conscience in a broken world that is a byproduct of his error. the veil put the world on mute and the veil is deteriorating. and he's supposed to just let it come down on it's own (causing certain mass destruction)??? or he could pull it down himself in his own way (with at least a slightly larger chance that something good might come of it in the future), something he at least has control over.

the plotlines of each game have reinforced the idea that the veil is certainly deteriorating.

solas's spell cannot hold back the fade forever. he fucked up. he either has to sit back and watch the world burn because of his error (again), or he has to somehow try to make things somewhat right. ethically inconsistent? it's literally the train problem. kill one person to save five, or kill five people to save one? no one can be perfectly ethically consistent when they have no ethical choices left. solas's choice to bring down the veil aligns perfectly with his character when you consider that he has more access to information than we do about what exactly he is doing. he's not telling us the whole truth. he's not going to sit back and let things happen naturally, he's going to do what he can to mitigate the damage and make it better (which is ethically consistent with his character).

just like he chastises us for siding with the grey wardens or drinking from the well - he does so because he knows more about the elven gods and the nature of the blight than we do, not because he's a bitter hypocritical douche who hates fun. solas has made so many mistakes that he destroyed his own people, in his mind the only way to right that is to correct his mistake as best he can, even if it causes mass destruction, because the alternative in his mind is certain doom. the veil is an unnatural mage-made construct. it was never meant to be there in the first place and was never meant to be permanent.

[storiesfromafan]

MIA - Buck x Reader

A/N: so I am back with part 2 to Rumours. Not sure how I feel about this...but it will have to do haha. I will do a part 3, and that will be it.

Forgive me if any information is wrong, as I had to change a few things around to suit the story. As well as any spelling and grammer mistakes 😅

Tag list: @strayrockette (you asked for angsty, hope I met the requirement...maybe lol)

October 8th 1943 was a day you wouldn't forget. Starting with waking to this foreboding feeling gnawing at the back of your mind. And with every minute of the passing morning your stomach sinking further and further. Something was to happen that day, which usually meant death, injury and despair with a mix of grief.

Earlier that morning the 100th had flown out on a raid. It was like they normally would, no one would have guessed the out come of their return. You had spent the morning doing inventory and getting everything ready for the 100th return. If this raid was like any other, there would be some injured men coming into your medical. The Doctor's were waiting, ready for whatever was to come. While the other nurses prepared for what they would see.

When the transport vehicles rolled out, maned by men who were use to everything traumatising and disturbing. You might see the men when they are wheeled in, but to see them as they are pulled from their plane, you don't think you could stomach that. You had over heard a few men telling other female nurses the gruesome details, every stomach churning missing limb and exposed insides. And you can't forget the blood.

Standing with the other nurses and Doctors, with baited breath, you all waited. Ready for action, to help and save lives. You heard the vehicles come flying down the dirt road, the muffled noise of men talking before the cries of those injured. When the doors burst open and the first few men were brought it, you all sprung into action.

You didn't think, you just acted. Moving to help a man who was covered in blood, you looked him over assessing his wounds. He had a few large, deep cuts but none were in any areas of major arteries. But he did had a broken leg and dislocated arm. The sounds he made was hard to listen too, it pulled at your heartstrings. But you kept on moving, doing your job.

When you were done with him you moved on to the next, and then the next, till all that had came in were seen too. Hours went by, it was late morning when you had started, and it was now evening when you finally stopped. Done with your work. Clothing covered in blood, body drained and exhausted. But you felt satisfied, knowing all men were alive. Yet the night would only tell how the worst would fare.

Stepping out of the medical building, the evening breeze hitting your face. Closing your eyes, you inhaled the fresh air into your lungs, a stark contrast to that of the sterile space you had been in. Rolling your shoulders back, you stretched your arms and hands, enjoying how your body creaked and cracked. Your ears took in the faint sounds of the base. Enjoying the sounds around you, unlike what you had listened to, which had been filled with cries, moans, groans and machines for hours.

If only you had been warned not to open your eyes, you could have lived in ignorant bliss. For as soon as you opened them you were greeted to the sight of one Major Egan. The usual boyish charm and cheeky nature gone, replaced with sadness and anguish. That foreboding and sinking pit in your stomach surfacing after being pushed away while you worked. Today was a day you had dreaded. A day that you prayed to never meet.

“It's B-Buck...” Bucky managed to get out, voice hollow and strained. “H-his plane...it-it went down...”

Hearing those words laced in pain, as Bucky did his best to keep himself together. It was like standing there, telling you, made it finally sink in, how real the situation was. The chances were Buck had gone down with his plane, possibly dead. Or he managed to evacuate and was now in enemy territory, which meant death or becoming a prisoner. No matter what way you thought about it, there was a chance of Buck not returning.

You felt the air in your lungs hinder. Breathing in all aspects getting harder. Your chest tightening with the dread you were feeling. You could feel tears rising in your eyes. Bucky looked up from staring at the ground, and upon seeing your reaction to the news, swiftly moved to grab your arm. He led you to a bench near by before helping you sit, then taking the spot next to you.

Everything seemed to fade away, leaving you with an ache in your chest. You couldn't form any words, yet your mind was running wild with them. So many questions that you wanted to ask. Bucky watched you as you stared off into the distance. He understood what you were going through, processing the terrible news. He had been in the same position as you hours before.

Bucky cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump that seemed to be sitting there. “I...I thought you should hear the news from me...” his voice was low, trying to be as calm as he could.

You nodded, still having trouble to speak. But the silence between you too wasn't uncomfortable, for you both understood the other right now. Maybe you both needed the other, to work through this moment. A moment that could have come at any time. Bucky knew that, and you both knew Buck knew it. It was part of their job, knowing at any minute they are up in the air, and then the next they would be coming down. With a slim chance of survival in this war.

With time Bucky spoke to you, telling you to clean up and take it easy. Mentioning how he would be having a drink by the planes, if you wanted to join him. Still you hadn’t spoken, but nodded your heard slowly. With that, you shakily got up from your seat and headed back to your room. It was when you were behind a closed door, back resting against the wood, and sliding down to sit on the floor. That was when you finally let your tears free. You broke down, heartbroken and longing to see Buck, even for just one more fleeting moment.

True to his word, you found Bucky that night on the wing of a plane. You had been in your room for ages trying to stop your tears, and only finally was able to get it under control. Not wanting to be alone, you had decided to seek out Bucky. You made your way up to the base of the plane, looking up at the intoxicated man who sat with his feet hanging over the edge of the wing.

“B-Bucky...” you spoke, voice horse and not sounding like yourself. A result from your crying. “Are you alright up there?”

He swayed a little, his head turning down to look to you. “F-fine...I guess" he sputtered.

“Maybe you should come down...” you said concerned for his well being.

Bucky just nodded his head before slowly and a little unsteadily, getting down. With his feet on the ground, you moved to sit you both in front of the plane. The ground was hard, and a little cool, but you both would be fine. Silence filled the space around you, but both happy to take comfort in each other.

With time Bucky began to speak, reminiscing on moments with Buck. He told you how they met and became friends, what they had both gone through up in the air. How he was like a brother to him. And how they both liked being around you, recalling when they first met you. And what he thought about you, and Buck's reaction to you.

“We both liked having you around, you know?” Bucky questioned. “It was nice to have a dance partner that could take a joke" he laughed.

You smiled softly, for the first time feeling happy hearing his words.

“Buck...Buck liked having someone to talk to that was level headed, like him. He told me how close you both were, and I was happy he had you. And when those rumours made the rounds, he was Hell bent on putting an end to them" he chuckled. “Had me wondering...”

You looked at Bucky in confusion. “Wondering what...?”

“You know" he said tilting his head, when you continued to look at him the way you were he went on. “You know...if you and Buck were – well you know”.

You sat up straight at his insinuation. Bucky thought you and Buck were seeing each other privately, and engaging in inappropriate behaviour. “N-no, not at all" you replied quickly.

“But you do have feelings for him, right?” Bucky asked, looking you in the eye. “He came back after speaking to you, he didn't say it but I could tell something went down between you both, right?”

You averted your eyes from his. Deciding there was no reason to hide it, you nodded your head. Out of all the people on the base, Bucky and Buck were to two you could trust. And it looked liked you only have Bucky left.

“I knew it...I think he cared for you. But with Marge, he was devoted to her...” Bucky thought out loud. “Watching you both, I could see something there...but you're both so good, to do anything to hurt someone...”

You didn't understand what the Major was getting at. Deciding it was time for him to get to bed, you voiced it. “Alright Bucky, I think its time you get some rest”.

You moved to help him up, but Bucky protested, almost having a child like fit. But with a little bit of talking to him, you were able to talk him into it. With his arm over your shoulders, you helped get Bucky back to his room, before leaving him at his door. Reluctantly you headed back to you room. Once in bed you had wanted to sleep, but it was something that you got next to none off. How your sleeping pattern would be from here on out.

The course of the next few weeks seemed to be following a steady path. But, once more, you are struck with bad news. First Buck, now Bucky. His plane going down and with that, the last of your hope for everyone else. You cried and thought of the Major, but no where near as it had been for Buck.

Lost to war were two strong men. Who didn't deserve what they got. No more mischievous and anger inducing moments with Bucky, whom you would gladly have one more dance with, only to have him make you laugh. No more electrifying discussions with Buck, were you would enjoy looking into his stormy blue eyes, that caused butterflies to swarm your stomach. Now it was an empty pit, with a chest to match.

A/N: one of my favourite moments was Buck dancing with Meatball 😍

[bamber344]

Invested In Your Succes

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sup gang. this chapter is frickin huge. good luck lol

i feel like the character dynamics go pretty hard in this one but maybe that's just me

a few minor spoilers in the cws this time but if your worried about the content make sure to check 'em

enjoy!

CWs: Caning, stress positions, mentions of previous torture (beating), mentions of previous gun violence, controlling whumper, creepy whumper, lowkey whumper turned whumpee, allusions to non-con prostitution (briefly mentioned), minor cosmic horror, threats of violence, forced to drink alcohol, drunk whumpee

Invested In Your Success

“P-please, Father… No more… I- I’ll be good.”

My voice croaked out weakly, wavering and cracking with every word. Exhaustion and pain gripped every single fibre of my being in a stranglehold. I just wanted it all to end. I knew that I’d made mistakes, disobeyed Father’s orders, and that was why I deserved this, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much.

Thwack!

I yelped at the sharp sting of the cane across my back, taking its place among dozens of other hot, stinging welts. I supposed I should just be grateful that Father had chosen to wait for me to recover from my concussion and broken sternum before continuing my insubordination punishments. Those few weeks of rest were the most peace I’d felt in… I couldn’t even remember. Maybe my whole life. It was all undercut by the dread of what was awaiting me once I was better, though. 

It started with the discipline training days. A few days after my beating for failing to protect the SWAT officers, Father dragged me into a room of the facility I’d never been in before. Metal fastenings lined the walls and buckled ropes hung from the ceiling. He set me down on my knees and fastened my hands behind me with some cuffs, hooking them onto a rope so that my arms were wrenched upwards painfully. My ankles were subsequently cuffed to the fastenings on the walls, so I had no choice but to kneel, sitting up off my calves to try and alleviate the pain in my shoulders. Then, Father just left, closing the door and leaving me in the dark.

For eight long hours, I suffered there in unknowable agony, amplified by my lack of sight. By the time he came and released me, the strain in my muscles was so great that I couldn’t move for a good forty minutes afterwards. Then he told me that, until I learned to respect him and his authority, and to never talk back again, this was going to be a weekly thing. I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

Getting shot was almost a good thing, in that regard. It was nice getting to talk to Vivienne and Brianna, and my injuries meant that Father couldn’t justify doling out my punishments for a while, lest he make them worse and ruin my performance as a hero. All that was over with now, though.

Thwack!

“Agh! F-Father! Dad, please! I’m sorry!”

I’d already been in this position for hours, though I’d lost my exact count once the pain got too bad. My arms were restrained over my head, pulling me up onto the tips of my toes. Do I support myself and use up my dwindling muscle strength, or do I just let myself hang, ruining my shoulders with steadily worsening dislocation? That was the question I was left with, though it quickly became pointless to wonder as my calves steadily lost strength and more weight was put on my arms regardless. Now, instead of letting me go, Father was caning me.

“Stop talking, Jordyn,” Father said, calmly. “You know you were forbidden from informing those superheroes of your circumstances, yet you did so anyway. Now be quiet and accept your punishment.”

It was the truth. In my never-ending stupidity and my concussion-induced haze, I’d said a lot of stuff to Vivienne and Brianna that I hadn’t intended to. Father watched the whole thing unfold through my visor camera, sealing my fate. He was right, I deserved this. But, deserved or not, it didn’t change how weak I was. It didn’t change how much I just wanted it to be over. I stifled a sob as the next hit came, vowing to at least follow Father’s orders and not speak, if I couldn’t stop myself from vocalising at all.

A few more strikes, and the punishment finally ended. Father unlocked the cuffs on my wrists and I collapsed with a cry, my dislocated shoulders sending a lance of pain through my body.

“That will be all for now, Jordyn. You have one more discipline session next week, and then we’ll see if the training holds or not. You have two hours to get yourself fixed and rest. Then, you and I have an engagement to attend. I will meet you in your quarters then. Do not be late.”

An engagement? That was the first I’d heard of this. And apparently, that was all I would hear of this, as Father left the room before I could sum up the energy to ask any questions. Oh well. That wasn’t super important right now, anyway. What was important was getting my shoulders back into their sockets. This was really gonna suck.

I grimaced, gingerly rolling onto my back and trying not to hiss at the feeling of my welts against the cold floor. I needed to calm down. This wouldn’t work if I wasn’t relaxed.

I closed my eyes, spending several minutes just breathing, and thinking about calming things. Sitting on rooftops on quiet evenings. Relaxing in my room with a book. Drawing. My shower. Talking with Vivienne and Brianna. I wasn’t expecting those two to pop up in my mind's eye, but it made sense. Their calm demeanour while Vivienne was treating me was part of the reason I didn’t freak out nearly as much as I could have, considering the situation. Brianna was especially good at keeping my mind off of it, her low voice hitting my ear at a comforting frequency as she told me how brave I was being. The thought of that memory made my stomach flutter a bit.

Now that I was calm, I slowly shifted my right arm up until it was over my head, and then carefully reached for my other shoulder. Sure enough, the joint popped back in with one last terrible shot of pain before everything subsided – on that side, at least. Now to do it all over again.

I cursed, spitting one of the words I’d heard the other officers use up at the ceiling. Did everyone’s life involve this much pain?

—

The designated time had come and I stood at the ready in my room, donned in my armour, trying to fight back against the shakiness in my exhausted muscles. Father should be here any minute.

Sure enough, the door slid open and Father walked in, looking me over. He nodded.

“Good, you’re ready. You can leave your helmet here. You won’t need it.”

I frowned, pulling it off and leaving it on the bed. That was highly unusual. Half the reason I was being punished was simply for removing my mouthpiece in front of Vivienne and Brianna. I didn’t even want to consider what Father would do if I’d taken my whole helmet off.

He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t shaved your head yet.”

A spike of adrenaline shot through me as I reached up to touch my head. He was right, I’d totally forgotten. I hadn’t needed to during my month of recovery, and to be honest, I’d been putting it off, savouring what little hair growth I could get. Right now it was sitting at around half an inch. Surely that wasn’t so bad, right? Still, I couldn’t afford another mistake.

“I- I’m sorry, sir. It slipped my mind.”

He sighed, turning to leave the room and motioning for me to follow. “I suppose it can’t be helped. It’s too late now, and in all fairness, you are recovering from a brain injury. Forgetfulness is to be expected.”

Relief flooded my body. He was letting me off the hook. “Thank you, sir.”

“I expect it to be done before you leave for patrol tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” I tried to hide my disappointment, already mourning the little bit of soft fluff I’d managed to grow.

The silence dragged on as I followed him down the hallway and into the elevator, and with it, my curiosity about the night only grew. “Permission to speak?” I asked. 

“Granted.”

“What is this event we’re going to?”

“A party among my friends, to celebrate your relative success.”

“What’s a party?”

He looked at me, a hint of amusement at the edges of his eyes. “You’ll see.”

Once we reached the garage, we got into Father’s car and he drove me through the city. It was nice to be able to see everything without my helmet on for once, and when we arrived at our destination, I finally got to enjoy the sensation of something I’d been waiting for since the day I woke up; feeling the wind in my hair. It almost made up for the terrible day I’d had. Sadly, it was only for the short walk from the car to the building, though.

Once inside, we took an elevator all the way up to the penthouse floor. When the doors opened in front of me, I was greeted by the sight of dozens of older, suited people milling around a large space. Music was playing, and the air was thick with the scent of perfumes and colognes. They all turned to see who the new arrivals were, and all of their eyes quickly locked on to me. I tried to school my expression of discomfort, remembering that I couldn’t hide behind my helmet. The urge to turtle behind the neckpiece of my armour was strong.

“Andy, it’s good to see you!” A man approached us as we stepped into the room; sharply dressed, with his dark brown hair slicked back. A quick glance around at the faces and body language of everyone present confirmed my hunch: this man was the most important person here. He was younger than most of his companions, probably around 40, with angular features; high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

“Mr. Beaumond,” Father greeted, shaking the man’s hand. “A pleasure, as always.”

Mr. Beaumond turned to me, his dark eyes travelling up and down my form appraisingly. They settled on my face, staring into my soul. A shiver crawled up my spine and I nervously averted my eyes, looking down at his shoes.

“Wow, Andy. I mean, seriously, wow. You’ve outdone yourself. The resemblance is actually uncanny!”

“I should hope so,” Father replied. “If her appearance wasn’t exact, it would mean something went wrong.”

I had no idea what they were talking about, but I was used to that by this point. I’d already accepted the fact that I was an idiot. No reason to agonise over not understanding the conversations of my betters.

“So, how much to rent her out for a night, huh?” Mr. Beaumond grinned and waggled his eyebrows, lightly elbowing Father. Then he burst into laughter, like it was all a joke. Something in his eyes told me it wasn’t. Despite not really understanding, a deeply uncomfortable feeling settled into my gut.

Father’s expression changed slightly, though he maintained the cordial smile. “Jordyn is not for sale, I’m afraid. I prefer to keep her activities tightly monitored in order to maximise her effectiveness. Perhaps we can discuss this in the context of some of the subjects still in development, but given the risks to the program that would involve, I would need quite the hefty funding bonus in order to consider it.”

Mr. Beaumond patted Father on the shoulder. “Ah, lighten up, Andy. It was just a joke! That being said, I’ll hold you to that.” He winked. I was shocked. No one had ever treated Father so casually before, and the way this man was acting was clearly putting Father in a bad mood. If it had been me, Father would have had me nursing multiple broken bones already. And yet, Father was still maintaining that calm, diplomatic smile. An icy sensation crept through my body. 

This man held power over him. I could barely wrap my head around the concept. It just didn’t fit with my idea of how the world worked. Father was always at the top of the food chain. The employees at the facility and the police were below him, and I was below them, sitting with the rank and file officers, if not below them, too. Simply put; I was the prey, and Father was the predator. He hunted. He controlled. No one stood against him. The idea that there was anyone that Father was beholden to was terrifying. That the man could cause me so much pain and not be the most powerful was incomprehensible. It made me wonder how much worse Father’s predator would be, when their ire was faced upon me.

“Enough about business, it’s a party!” Mr. Beaumond jovially announced, snapping me out of my paranoid spiralling. “Come, you two! It’s an open bar, so get anything you like.”

He corralled us towards the tall bench that many of the party-goers were milling around. The wall beyond the bench was covered by floor-to-ceiling shelves, all filled with bottles of varying shapes and sizes. A man in a waistcoat stood behind the bench, rushing between people and filling glasses with the liquids inside the various bottles. His speed and efficiency in his work was fascinating to watch.

“Jordyn doesn’t drink,” Father said, to which I was tempted to argue that I do indeed drink, I have water all the time, when he continued, “She’ll just have a coke.”

The man behind the bar nodded and started filling up a glass with some sort of bubbly, dark brown liquid. Mr. Beaumond laughed that laugh of his.

“What is she, fourteen? Come on, Andy, don’t be a stick in the mud. She’s an adult; she can have a drink if she wants to.” He turned to me, and I had to resist the urge to back up. “Well, Jordie? What do you say? Care to have a drink with the grown-ups?”

I found myself at a loss for words, gaping like a fish as I kept trying to speak, only to come up empty. To say yes would be to go directly against Father’s wishes. To say no would be to go against Mr. Beaumond’s wishes. I didn’t know which was worse. Even outside of that, I had no idea how to respond. Wasn’t I getting a drink anyway? Maybe I was misunderstanding some terminology that the two men took for granted. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“As her handler, I would prefer that Jordyn doesn’t drink anything alcoholic tonight.” Father said pointedly. “She’s going out on patrol tomorrow for the first time since her injury. I would rather not have a hangover muddy her performance any more than inactivity no doubt already has. We wouldn’t want your investments to go to waste, after all.”

Mr. Beaumond put his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re her boss.”

Father handed me the glass of brown liquid as he ordered a drink of his own. I took a sniff and immediately recoiled as the sweet smell seemed to fizzle up my nose. Father laughed at my reaction as I tentatively took a sip. Again, the sweetness was almost overpowering, and it felt like the liquid was gently stabbing the inside of my mouth, tingling as it travelled down my throat. Surprisingly, that wasn’t actually a bad thing. It was just… weird. And new. I’d only ever had water before, so this whole thing was a very novel experience. I actually kind of liked it.

“Well, you two have fun now,” Mr. Beaumond said. “I’m gonna go mingle. We’ll talk business soon, yeah Andy?” He turned to me, giving me a wink. “Catch you later, sweetcheeks.”

With that, he sauntered off into the crowd. Father and I watched him go.

“Who is he?” I asked quietly.

“Sebastian Beaumond,” Father answered. “He’s a senator, and one of the key investors in your rehabilitation program. Treat him with the same respect you would treat me.”

I could have sworn he said the last part through gritted teeth.

—

If there was one thing I’d learned about parties throughout the night, it was that they were incredibly overwhelming. As soon as Mr. Beaumond left us alone, it seemed like everyone wanted a piece of me, and Father was little help, often engaging in completely unrelated conversations while I was left to fend for myself among all of the strangers who had a weird fixation with my face, for some reason. I lost count of how many times some old person pinched my cheek or poked me. It didn’t help that I was still in quite a lot of pain from the day’s punishments; my calves quivering and my shoulders steadily pulsing with sharp muscle stabs, the welts on my back still stinging with every movement. At least the drink Father gave me was nice…

Finally, after enduring the unwanted affections and confusing compliments from dozens of people, I was able to find the space to duck away and hide in a corner, catching my breath away from the crowd. Most people had gotten caught in conversations with each other, leaving me free to slip into the shadows, subtly pulling them around me to further obscure myself from view. I’d had enough interaction for one night, and not having my helmet on, despite how I usually disliked its oppressive cage around my head, was making me feel exposed and vulnerable.

A felt a presence coming closer, and a shiver travelled down my spine. Mr. Beaumond approached, two drinks in hand. I watched him warily as he came near, crowding me into the corner of safety I’d hidden in.

“It’s pretty dark around here,” he said, looking around. “That your doing? Don’t tell me you’re trying to hide away, Jordie? You’re practically the life of the party!”

I blinked up at him, trying to avoid staring too hard into the black pits of his eyes. Something about them was unsettling. “I… I, uh…”

He let out a small laugh. “Not much of a talker, are you? Here, drink this. It should help with that.” He held out one of the glasses. Inside was a brown liquid; lighter than the drink I’d had earlier, and without the bubbles. Its scent made my nose burn.

“I… I shouldn’t. Father said I wasn’t allowed.”

“Father did, hm? That’s what you call him? Ah, that’s cute. Well, he’s not around right now, is he? Besides, this party is to celebrate you! You deserve to cut loose a little. Go on, drink it.”

Mr. Beaumond leaned in closer. I didn’t want to say no to him, but the knowledge of what would await me if I disobeyed Father was too strong a warning to ignore. I hesitantly shook my head.

“Father would find out. I don’t want to be punished. I- I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumond.”

His face dropped all expression, becoming totally blank. The darkness of his pupils seemed to draw me in. There was nothing behind them; no light, no goodness, only a strange flickering at the edges of my vision that filled me with awful, primordial anxiety. It was the exact same sensation I felt right before my seizure a few months ago; a predator was watching me, and I was completely helpless against it. I was staring into the abyss, and it stared straight back into me.

“A word of advice, Jordyn, since I know you’re new to the whole ‘being alive’ thing. When someone offers you something, it’s polite to take it, regardless of what you really want. Maybe you should worry less about how Andreas will react, and worry more about me. Who knows, I might feel slighted by your snubbing of my offer. Andreas owes me a lot of money; I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I paid you a visit in the facility some day to teach you a lesson in respect. And I would be very thorough, Jordyn. You think you know pain? You think you understand humiliation? I can break you in ways you can barely comprehend, ways Andreas wouldn’t even dare think of. Andreas may own you, but I own him. I own this city. There is nowhere you can go to be safe from me.”

He leaned back a little as I stood there, completely frozen. My heart raced like it was trying to escape from my chest. That same old easy smile overtook his face, replacing the cold, empty blankness. The smile was honestly worse.

“All that is to say… C’mon. Don’t be boring, Jordie. Take a drink with me.”

I took the drink from him, too petrified to do anything but obey. The liquid inside sloshed against the glass from the way my hands were shaking. He noticed it, and the edges of his eyes crinkled in delight.

“Aww, did I scare you? I’m sorry, babe. Drink up, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Mr. Beaumond, what are you doing?”

I’d never been so relieved to see Father in my life. He strode up to us, a stern look on his face that, for once, wasn’t directed at me. Mr. Beaumond didn’t look at him, keeping his horribly empty gaze locked on to me. 

“Just giving the little lady a drink, nothing to lose your head over.”

“I thought I told you that wasn’t happening.”

Mr. Beaumond rounded on him, seeming to tower over Father despite being slightly shorter.

“Tell me, Andy. What makes you think you have a say? If I recall correctly, I own almost seventy percent of the shares for your little project. Doesn’t that mean I have a say in how things are run? A bigger say than yours, even?”

Father took a deep breath. I could almost feel his anger rising. “Even so, as I said earlier, I believe it would be foolish to get her drunk the night before her redeployment. Her public image could be at stake.”

Mr. Beaumond tilted his head. “It’s funny that you think I don’t know what your real goal is. ‘Revitalising the police?’ Please, don’t make me laugh. I know what you’re really planning with this little project of yours, and I just want you to know, I am invested in your success. Believe it or not, I want you to succeed. This world needs changing, and I do think you’re the one to do it. That being said, I could just as easily change my mind. It would be a cinch to cut your funding down to nothing. You’d have to downsize quite a bit. Maybe even let go of poor little Jordyn here. I would take good care of her, of course, but you’d be left without your soldier. You could start again with another subject, but how would that look in the eyes of the public? Your pet superhero just up and disappears, but it’s okay, because now you’ve got a new one, with no news of where the first one went? That wouldn’t go down well, especially with the rumours that are already floating around about Jordyn. Tell me, Andy. What’s worse? A hero in a program people are already suspicious of disappearing? Or, said superhero going back to work with a hangover? Hell, it might actually convince people you don’t hold the leash as tight as you do. It would be good for you. Just think about it.”

Father grit his teeth and finally submitted, looking down at the floor. “Do as he says, Jordyn. Drink.”

I didn’t even know what the drink was, but after how insistent Mr. Beaumond had been, I felt hesitant out of pure principle. “But-”

Father looked at me sharply and I had to resist the instinct to recoil. “You still have one week left on your insubordination punishment. Don’t make me extend that further.”

He was right. I couldn’t afford to be forced into that horrible room for even a second longer than I already had to. Whatever this drink was, it couldn’t be worse than that. I took a deep breath and brought the glass up to my lips, taking as big of a gulp as I could manage in order to finish it quicker.

That was a mistake.

The bitter liquid burned the inside of my mouth and all the way down my throat. I had to resist the urge to retch, forcing myself to swallow. A sudden nausea snapped through me for a split second before fading. 

“That was awful,” I muttered, pulling a face.

Mr. Beaumond laughed. “Keep going, you’ve still got half a glass left!”

I tried not to shudder, steeling myself for the unpleasant experience before taking another large sip. Better to just get it over and done with.

By the time I was done, I was actively resisting the need to throw up. I put the glass down on a nearby table and stumbled back to the wall, leaning heavily against it. My head felt like it was spinning slightly, and the sensation was awful. I felt like I was slowly losing control of my own body, and in a place as dangerous and unsafe as this, I needed as much control as I could get. 

“There’s a good girl,” Mr. Beaumond said. He held out the other glass. “Not done yet, though. Come on, you can do it.”

I let out a whine as my stomach dropped, looking to Father for help. He just nodded. I was completely on my own.

—

I stared at the floor, trying not to puke as the world spun horribly around me. My entire face felt numb, and my thoughts felt slow. If I thought the sensation of lacking control was bad after one glass, I had no idea what was coming once I’d finished the second one. Thankfully, Mr. Beaumond left me alone after that, patting me on the back and congratulating me for a job well done before sauntering off to bother someone else. Father told me to keep my head down and not talk to anyone for the rest of the night, so that’s what I was doing, lounging in a chair, hiding behind my shadows, and just trying to stay alive. At least the numbness made my injuries hurt a little less. It was a very minor comfort, in the face of everything else. 

Time lost all meaning as I sat there, swaying back and forth. It felt like I’d been at this party for hours and hours, but that couldn’t be right; the clock on the wall hadn’t changed enough for that.

“Jordyn.”

I looked up at the sound of my name. Father stood over me, a carefully even expression on his face. I knew him well enough by now to notice the hint of worry underneath it, though. Behind him, the room had almost emptied out.

“Yeh…yeah, dad?”

His lip curled downwards a little at that. “We’re moving to a boardroom to discuss business. Given your… state, I believe it best that you do not attend. You can go home.”

I blinked. “R-really?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Use your shadows to obscure your face. If you allow anyone to see it, I will know, and there will be dire consequences. Am I understood?”

I nodded rapidly and immediately regretted it, as a wave of nausea travelled up my throat. “Yea- urp.” I quickly covered my mouth in case anything came out.

Father sighed. He waved a hand at me, as if shooing me off. “Get going. And if you need to throw up, do it somewhere no one will see.”

I nodded much more carefully as he walked away. Standing up was difficult, but I managed it with a bit of effort, stumbling over to the elevator and failing multiple times at pressing the button for the ground floor. This trip was going to be a pain, that was for sure.

—

I was lost.

No matter how hard I looked, no matter how many street signs I stared at, no matter how much I surveyed the area from atop a building, I just couldn’t find my way back to the precinct. My sense of direction was completely shot from the spinning in my head, and I’d already had to stop to throw up once. This night couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Father was going to be so mad at me.

The thought made a sob rip from my chest. I stumbled back against a wall and sank to the floor, unable to hold it back anymore. Once he found me, he was gonna hurt me again, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. 

“Seven? Is that you?”

I blinked away my tears, looking up and ensuring that a cloud of shadows remained around my face. Vivienne stood not too far away, dressed in street clothes with a satchel around her shoulder. Her outfit was simple but cute; a yellow long-sleeve underneath a dark green cardigan, and a pair of skinny denim jeans. It made envy and longing burn deep down in my gut. What I wouldn’t give to get to wear cute stuff like that.

I sniffled. “Vivienne?”

“Hey,” she said. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Are you alright? What’s, uh… what’s going on with your helmet? It looks like a cloud.”

“I left it at home. Usin’ shadows to hide m’ face.”

Vivienne frowned. “Are you drunk?”

The question brought the memory of Mr. Beaumond forcing me to drink straight back to the forefront of my mind and I crumpled into another fit of sobbing.

“Woah, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you!” Vivienne said. “Here, c’mon. Let’s get you up off the floor, okay?”

She reached down and I took her hand, using it to help myself up. My balance was off though, and I stumbled against her, my head falling down onto her shoulder. She smelled nice.

“Are you… okay, Seven?”

No. I wasn’t okay. I didn’t want to feel like this anymore; so helpless and out of control. I didn’t want to be lost. I didn’t want Father to hurt me anymore. I didn’t want to be a superhero. I choked on another sob and shook my head against her shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” She wrapped her arms around me, burying one in the short hair on the back of my head, and I practically melted into her. No one had ever held me like this before. No one had touched me so gently, not since the early days of my rehabilitation. I never wanted it to end.

“He… H-he made me drink… I di’n’t wanna, but he made me… sss…said he’d hurt me. I feel so bad ‘n I’m lost ‘n dad’s g’nna punish me again ‘f I don’ get back.”

Vivienne stiffened in my arms. “Who made you drink, Seven? Who said they’d hurt you?”

“Please don’ call me that,” I muttered. “Nn… N-name’s Jordyn. M’ not a number. I’m a person ‘n I’m not a number… I just… I wanna be a person…” My eyes pricked with hot tears.

“Okay. Okay, Jordyn,” Vivienne said, rubbing the back of my head. “That’s a nice name. Much better than Seven. Now, who did you say threatened you?”

“Mr. B- Beaumond.” 

“I… I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. I wish I could help you more.”

I groaned, shaking my head and burying my face in the cotton of Vivienne’s cardigan. “S’ okay… You… you smell nice…”

Vivienne laughed. It sounded like music. The thought brought a small smile to my face. “Thanks. It’s probably my perfume.”

I hummed, closing my eyes. If I wasn’t standing, I could easily fall asleep like this, cuddled up to Vivienne. Her shoulder was at just the right height for me to rest my head on. Hell, I was almost about to doze off just like that when I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.

“Can you… help me get home, please?” I asked.

“Okay, sure. Where do you live?”

“Precinct 23.”

“You… You live at the precinct?” I could practically hear the frown in Vivienne’s voice.

“There’s a big facility un’er it. I’ve lived there forever.”

“You’ve been under the precinct your entire life?”

“As far back ‘s I rem’ber, anyway. I dunno what I did before then. ‘S been a year since I woke up. Dad says I’ve always been a hero, but I don’ remember it. I… I don’t really like it. I don’ like the fighting.”

“I… I see…” Vivienne muttered. I was probably saying too much, but I couldn’t find it in me to care, and without my helmet on, Father wouldn’t see, anyway. For once, I was completely free of his surveillance. The moment would be over far too soon, though.

“Alright, well… I can take you to the precinct, but you’ll have to get inside yourself. Is that okay?”

I nodded against her shoulder. “Mhm.”

“Hold on to your guts. I’m about to teleport.”

The air popped in my ears as the scenery changed to the front entrance of the precinct. What a handy power to have.

“This is you,” Vivienne said, finally pulling back from the hug. I quickly amassed my shadows again to hide my face as we parted. “Do you need anything else?”

“Mm, no,” I replied. “Thanks for… Thanks for talking to me.”

Vivienne smiled, tilting her head slightly. The streetlights sparkled in her eyes. My stomach filled with butterflies at the sight.

“No problem. See you around, Jordyn.”

With a slight pop, she teleported away.

God, what an amazing woman. 

I looked at the precinct. Now I just had to find my way back to my room. Easy, right?

—

I awoke to the feeling of someone nudging me in the side. My head was pounding. There was so much noise, and the light that was creeping through my eyelids was like needles being driven directly into my brain.

“Jordyn?” someone asked. I thought I recognised the voice as Mr. Sadler’s.

“Wh… what?”

“Why are you sleeping in the corridor?”

The memories of last night came rushing back. Stumbling into the elevator and heading down. Wandering through the halls, trying door after door to no avail. Finally, giving up and flopping down on the floor, sleeping right there in the hallway. I groaned, burying myself under a dark sheet of shadow to hide away.

“Leave me alone…”

Mr. Sadler laughed. “Long night, huh? Sounds like you’re gonna have fun at work today.”

The reminder felt worse than a broken sternum. I would legitimately rather die.

taglist: @steelandblood @sapphicwhump @urnumber1star @alsolucakairomi @idkwhattodowiththisaltiamsorry

@iamheretohurt @anoyedartist @dontyoubleedoutonme @seastarblue

Did not expect to get a new whumper out of this chapter but Sebastian just forced himself into the plot anyway. He's creepy and awful and i kinda love it. I hate him.

jordyn just keeps having a real bad time. It won't get better any time soon i'm afraid. at least she gets occasional homoerotic encounters to keep her going.

Thanks for reading! leave a comment or reblog and lemme know what you thought! it's very appreciated :)

see you all next time for the return of our beloved bird woman. Ciao!

[rainbowsky]

Regarding CPN discussions, questions and comments

Several times over the past few days I've had to remind people about a boundary I have around discussions of CPN, so I feel it might be a good time to remind everyone of this so that everyone is on the same page.

I'm always preaching that CPN is for turtle's eyes only. It isn't meant for wider consumption by solos or passersby. This is for the protection of turtles and of GG and DD. When CPN crosses over into other areas, it pretty much always leads to fan wars and anti activity.

One of the measures that I feel passionately about in connection with this is the notion that

CPN should never be discussed in posts that are tagged with GG and DD's individual names.

There are a couple of really good reasons for this:

It's part of staying in our own lane. Solos follow the tags for GG and DD's individual names, and if CPN is discussed in those posts, solos can stumble across it and create problems. I have faced a lot of harassment in the past - including the recent past - from solos because of this very thing, and it's not fun. Fan wars are never good, but especially not when I become a target for hate through no fault of my own. If you talk about CPN in the comments of my posts, I am going to be the one attacked for it, not you.

Posts tagged with their individual names are for celebrating their individual works and achievements. There's plenty of space for clowning elsewhere.

All that I ask is that before you comment to discuss CPN in the notes of one of my posts, please double check that it is not tagged with 'xiao zhan' or 'wang yibo'. If it is, submit your comment or question to me as an ask, contact me privately about it, or find a post on my blog on a related subject that is tagged with 'bjyx' or 'yizhan' and comment there.

You can also feel free to make a post about it in the Yizhan Tumblr community.

Please also feel free to do whatever you want, take whatever risks you want, and embody your own values around this topic on your own blog, including reblogging my individual posts with whatever commentary you want. Feel free to use whatever tags you want and to discuss whatever you want in a reblog. Just please don't comment with CPN in posts on my blog that are tagged with their individual names.

A note on reactions

Some people really take it personally and get bent out of shape when I make this kind of request. This is by no means a rare reaction. The majority of turtles who I mention this to in response to CPN comments in the notes of these posts respond in a negative way. Some even unfollow or block me for it.

I don't understand why anyone would be offended by a boundary I set for my own well-being online, or why anyone would take personally a decision that I have made for my own well-being.

I have had a lot of harassment and hate thrown at me over the years, and due to a lifetime of being singled out, I am especially sensitive to bullying. It's just not something I want in my life, and I will seek to avoid and prevent it at all costs. Please respect my needs in this regard.

As importantly, we really do need to stay in our own lane to try to maintain some measure of harmony between fandoms, and to avoid fan wars.

This is not a new boundary - I've been stating it for years. @accio-victuuri has been saying this for years as well. It is by no means unusual for this request to be made by turtles. It is a best practice for avoiding fan wars.

So please try to be understanding about this. I would never make a request of someone if I didn't have a good reason.

I don't state these things to make you feel bad in any way. Nor do I hold it against you if you make a mistake. I'll just remove that comment and explain to you why I've done so. Don't take it personally. I appreciate people's engagement with my posts, and do not want to make anyone feel alienated. I do my best to express myself in a kind and understanding way.

I hope you will extend me the same courtesy.

[abdlstories777]

Amelia had made a terrible mistake, and she knew it. Cheating on Jack was the worst decision of her life. After their breakup, she struggled—no job, no friends, and no place to go. she turned to jack.

To her surprise, Jack didn’t immediately turn her down. Instead, he made an offer, but it came with a humiliating condition. “You can stay with me and Lily,” Jack said calmly, referring to his new girlfriend, “but you’ll be living under our rules. You won’t be an equal here, Amelia. You’ll live as... well, as the baby of the house. Completely dependent. If you want a roof over your head, that’s the deal.”

Amelia was stunned. It had to be a cruel joke. But Jack was dead serious. Humiliated, but with no other option, she reluctantly agreed.

From the moment she arrived, the nightmare began. The first sign of her new “status” was the outfit Lily handed her: a pastel onesie, complete with ruffles and childish patterns. Her heart sank. It didn’t end there. Jack led her to the bathroom and laid out the most humiliating part of her new life—she would be put through potty training.

“You’ve proven you can’t make adult decisions, so we’ll be treating you like the baby you are,” Lily said, a smirk on her face as she set up a plastic potty in the bathroom. “And babies need to be retrained.”

Each day was a cascade of humiliations. Mealtimes were the worst. Amelia was strapped into a high chair, her legs dangling awkwardly as Jack spoon-fed her mushy baby food. She wasn’t allowed to eat grown-up meals with them; instead, she sat there, blushing furiously, as they talked like adults while she had to endure every humiliating bite.

“Open wide,” Jack would say, holding the spoon as if she really was a toddler. If she hesitated, Lily would chime in, her voice dripping with condescension, “Come on, baby, if you don’t eat properly, we might have to start feeding you with a bottle.”

Amelia’s nights were no better. She had a strict 7 PM bedtime, far earlier than the couple. Lily would lead her upstairs, dress her in soft, cartoon-covered pajamas, and tuck her into bed. The worst part? Before going to sleep, she had to sit in front of the TV and watch endless hours of cartoons—bright, silly, and meant for toddlers. Amelia had no choice but to sit there, her cheeks burning red, as Jack and Lily would occasionally peek in and laugh at how intently she was “enjoying” the childish shows.

There were no breaks from the humiliation. Every day, she had to endure check-ins to see how her “potty training” was going, and Lily would often pat her on the head, mockingly asking, “Did baby use the potty today, or do we need diapers again?”

One day, after another humiliating accident, Amelia was forced into actual diapers, her dignity evaporating as she was taped into the bulky garment. “Since you clearly can’t be trusted with the potty, you’ll be wearing these until we say otherwise,” Lily declared with a triumphant smile.

The days stretched into weeks, and Amelia was trapped in a nightmare of embarrassment. She had lost every shred of dignity she once had, living each day as a helpless, overgrown infant in the house of her ex-boyfriend and his smug new girlfriend.

The worst part? Deep down, she knew she had brought it all on herself.

[candyunicornsateme]

personal fandom fact: long since deleted, but one of the first yt videos of Kenny fanart that really slapped my ass into love and angst over him was one with the song “Running Out of Pain” by 12 Stones. Feel like some things like that leave a lasting impression... I still listen to that song and always think of Kenny lol

[anghraine]

It's interesting (if often frustrating) to see the renewed Orc Discourse after the last few episodes of ROP. I've seen arguments that orcs have to be personifications of evil rather than people as such or else the ethics of our heroes' approach to them becomes much more fraught. Tolkien's work, as written, seems an odd choice to me for not wrangling with difficult questions, and of course, more diehard fans are going to immediately bring up Shagrat and Gorbag.

If you haven't read LOTR recently, Shagrat and Gorbag are two orcs who briefly have a conversation about how they're being screwed over by Sauron but have no other real options, about their opinions of mistakes that have been made, that they think Sauron himself has made one, but it's not safe to discuss because Sauron has spies in their own ranks. They reminisce about better times when they had more freedom and fantasize about a future when they can go elsewhere and set up a small-scale banditry operation rather than being involved in this huge-scale war. Eventually, however, they end up turning on each other.

Basically any time that someone brings up the "humanity" of this conversation, someone else will point out that they're still bad people. They're not at all guilty about what they're part of. They just resent the dangers to themselves, the pressure from above, failures of competence, the surveillance they're under, and their lack of realistic alternative options. The dream of another life mentioned in the conversation is still one of preying on innocent people, just on a much smaller and more immediate scale, etc.

I think this misses the reason it keeps getting brought up, though. The point is not that Shagrat and Gorbag are good people. The point is that they are people.

There's something very normal and recognizable about their resentment of their superiors, their fears of reprisal and betrayal that ultimately are realized, their dislike of this kind of industrial war machine that erases their individual work and contributions, the tinge of wistfulness in their hope of escape into a different kind of life. Their dialect is deliberately "common"—and there's a lot more to say about that and the fact that it's another commoner, Sam, who outwits them—but one of the main effects is to make them sound familiar and ordinary. And it's interesting that one of the points they specifically raise is that they're not going to get better treatment from "the good guys" so they can't defect, either.

This is self-interested, yes, but it's not the self-interest of some mystical being or spirit or whatnot, but of people.

Tolkien's later remarks tend to back this up. He said that female orcs do exist, but are rarely seen in the story because the characters only interact with the all-male warrior class of orcs. Whatever female orcs "do," it isn't going to war. Maybe they do a lot of the agricultural work that is apparently happening in distant parts of Mordor, maybe they are chiefly responsible for young orcs, maybe both and/or something else, we don't know. But we know they're out there and we know that they reproduce sexually and we know that they're not part of the orcish warrior class.

Regardless of all the problems with this, the idea that orcs have a gender-restricted warrior class at all and we're just not seeing any of their other classes because of where the story is set doesn't sound like automatons of evil. It sounds like an actual culture of people that we only see along the fringes.

And this whole matter of "but if they're people, we have to think about ethics, so they can't be people" is a weird circular argument that cannot account for what's in LOTR or for much of what Tolkien said afterwards. Yes, he struggled with The Problem of Orcs and how to reconcile it with his world building and his ethical system, but "maybe they're not people" is ultimately not a workable solution as far as LOTR goes and can't even account for much of the later evolution of his ideas, including explicit statements in his letters.

And in the end, the real response that comes to mind to that circular argument is "maybe you should think about ethics more."

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I’ve been thinking about lately is that small moment in “Air Turtle” where immediately after the Daves lose yet another game, Leo says how sorry he is and how he’s doing his best as the mascot. This moment is so short but it’s honestly jam-packed with a whole heap of characterization.

His need to apologize for things clearly not his fault - especially when it feels like he messes up the job he was given despite doing the best he can (the phrase “it’s not about you” takes a new meaning when this is one of the lessons to be learned from that - that he is not always solely responsible for things going wrong), his need to save face and make a connection with an older adult man in his life (something he consistently does throughout the series - he’s got a few daddy issues, always collecting potential father figures, it’s no wonder he jumps at the bit to keep rapport), and the way he sounds and looks and the words he chooses really pushes how he is just a kid (“Mr. the Dunk, I’m so sorry”).

Like I know it’s a one off moment that doesn’t truly mean much, but when put against the rest of the series it works really well with the rest of Leo’s established character and helps in solidifying later concepts as well.

[myrkkymato]

NSFW!!

Sorry minors, this one is not for you, don't interact!

I sacrificed my sleep for this. I kept counting the fingers but I'm too tired to make sure I didn't draw too many. Anyways, here is an Ellabs sketch